Departures
by TheFicChick
Summary: "Every day for the rest of my life, I will wonder how kissing a virtual stranger goodbye could have felt like a hello."
1. Chapter 1: Departures

**Departures**

**Summary:** "Every day for the rest of my life, I will wonder how kissing a virtual stranger goodbye could have felt like a hello."

**Rating:** M. Though there are no lemons yet, if I decide to continue this, there will be in the future. Also, there are numerous innuendos. Of course. Because that's what I do.

**Disclaimer:** I'm not in the habit of owning people, but I'd own Edward Cullen if I could. Alas, that privilege belongs to one Stephenie Meyer. Lucky witch.

_Endless thanks to the wonderful HollettLA for her epic beta awesomeness._

* * *

**January 3, 2012 – O'Hare Airport, Chicago – 9:45 p.m.**

"Four seventeen." The Starbucks cashier gazes impassively past me at the hordes of travelers bustling amid the airport gates as she waits for payment. I dig through the change pocket in my wallet for exact change, liking the idea of my carry-on being even that little bit lighter. A dime, a nickel, and two pennies clatter to the counter atop the four one-dollar bills sitting between us, and I push them toward her; she scoops them up and deposits them into the yawning drawer of her register, ripping a receipt from the roll and holding it out, still utterly bored and staring past me.

"Thank you," I say, but my words are steamrolled by her own.

"Next."

I shuffle to the end of the counter, waiting for my drink to appear. The nearby departures board tells me that I have more than two hours until my plane is scheduled to board and I sigh, glancing at the swirling snow through the floor-to-ceiling windows of a nearby gate. It will be much longer if the weather continues to assault the city, and inwardly I cringe at the prospect of spending an overnight tossing and turning on the grubby carpet of an airport terminal. Despite that likelihood, it's hard to muster up any indignation – what did I expect, flying in and out of Chicago in the dead of winter? I can, however, muster up some indignation toward Rosalie. Why she couldn't have planned a destination bachelorette party in the Bahamas is beyond me. Lord knows the woman likes to flounce around in a bikini. But no, it had to be a New Year's Eve bachelorette bash with all of her old socialite girlfriends in Times Square. No one could ever accuse Rose of lacking a sense of occasion. And, once we arrived at O'Hare and she headed to baggage claim as I made my way toward my connecting flight, I found myself staring down the barrel of a seemingly endless delay alone.

"Grande skim latte." The barista pushes my cup across the raised countertop and I offer her a smile, but she clearly subscribes to the same people skills philosophy as her coworker because she ignores me in favor of returning to her drink orders. Slipping a cardboard coffee sleeve around the cup and hoisting my backpack straps higher on my shoulders, I gaze around the terminal for a moment, debating whether to head for my gate immediately or find somewhere less chaotic.

O'Hare is buzzing with the level of post-holiday travel-related chaos to be expected at a major international airport the week after Christmas. Haggard parents attempt to corral wayward children too hyped up to be convinced to sit and amuse themselves quietly. College-aged students wander aimlessly, earbuds in their ears and glowing screens illuminating their bored faces. Seasoned jet-setting businesspeople look around as if the apocalypse is upon them, wondering when their familiar airport stomping ground turned into this circus, and the combination of distress and irritation on their faces is nearly laughable. There seems to be no place less frenzied than any other, so I make my way toward my gate, shoulders aching from the weight of my carry-on backpack. I can feel beads of sweat gathering at the small of my back; the heat is cranked in deference to the weather, and the overpopulation of bodies crammed into the terminal is making it too warm to be comfortable.

At the gate I scan for an open seat, but bodies are strewn around the space in varying degrees of consciousness, and it appears that every seat is taken. In a few instances, people have reclined across two or more seats to sleep, and my residual holiday goodwill melts away as irritation at their thoughtlessness creeps in.

"This seat's open." The friendly voice comes from somewhere behind me and I turn reflexively. A soldier sits on a bank of three chairs that are half-hidden behind the gate-check counter, a large knapsack beside him that matches the print of his fatigues. A beat-up silver iPod rests in his lap, and he has pulled one earbud out to address me; his hand holds it a few inches from his head. I glance at his face and he offers me a warm smile, dragging the bag effortlessly off the black leather seat and propping it up on the floor between his feet. I hesitate for a second, feeling guilty about invading his space as images of his probable destination flash through my mind. If he's headed where logic suggests he's headed, that black pseudo-chair might be the most comfortable seat he'll see for a while. Surely it would be selfish of me to encroach. Noting my hesitation and my fairly obvious perusal of his attire, he arches an eyebrow. "I'm unarmed," he says, and he is only half-kidding.

The smile that takes over my face is involuntary as I shrug out of my backpack and dump it on the floor, sinking gratefully into the chair beside him. "Thanks," I offer and he nods. I roll my shoulders in relief and take a tentative sip of my latte, wincing as the too-hot liquid touches my lips.

"New York?" he asks, letting the loose earbud fall to dangle against his chest, and I frown.

"Pardon?"

He nods toward the gate. "Headed to New York?"

I glance toward the gate he's indicating and shake my head, lifting my chin toward the opposite gangway. "Seattle."

"Ah." He nods, leaning back in his chair. "Delayed?"

"A little bit. Probably more, given how things are going. You?"

He nods. "Not looking good for tonight."

"Do you have a connection?"

His Adam's apple bobs slightly as he rests his head against the back side of the gate-check counter. "Had one," he says. "I'm all but guaranteed to miss it, so I'll be playing musical airplanes for the next few days."

"Where to from New York?" I ask, blowing through the tiny hole in the lid of my disposable coffee cup.

"Supposed to be Germany, then Kuwait, then Afghanistan," he says, then shrugs. "Now it remains to be seen."

"That sucks," I offer, and he chuckles, a warm, rumbling sound.

"Good thing about flying on Uncle Sam's dime: I'll get where I'm meant to be with very little effort on my part." I have no idea how to respond to this, so I opt to sip my still-too-hot coffee. "What's in Seattle?" he asks.

"Seattle's home," I say, and then I frown slightly. Is Seattle home? It's where I get my mail, and it's where I have a job, and my Facebook profile says I live there. My cell phone number has a Seattle area code. What more constitutes a home these days?

"Home?" he parrots, his frown and dubious tone mirroring my own.

I laugh. "Home," I say with a little more conviction this time. "You know, home – mailbox, kitchen, bedroom."

He arches an eyebrow. "Bedroom, huh?"

I shift in my seat. "What?"

He shakes his head, and as he breaks my gaze to look out the window, I can see that the tips of his ears are pink. "Sorry. I've been spending too much time with my brothers this week." He scratches his eyebrow and shifts in the black leather sling chair. "They're a bad influence on me." I consider him for a moment; he doesn't look like a sexual predator, but uniforms can be deceiving. My mind flits to Charlie and back. "I'm really not a pervert," he promises, eyes on me again, and I am alarmed that he can apparently read my thoughts. "I'm a little low on sleep and a little high on caffeine. I'm sorry."

"Older brothers?" I ask after a moment, a silent acceptance of his apology, and he exhales softly.

"Two. You?"

"Only child."

In the awkward silence that descends, his knee starts to bounce. "Well, since we've discussed family, hometowns, and your bedroom, I'd say it's about time I asked your name." His smile is warm and I feel something unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome unfurl low in my belly.

"Bella." I keep my voice carefully neutral as my fingers pick at the cardboard cuff around my latte, and I cast a surreptitious glance at the nametape on the right side of his chest. _Cullen._

"Bella," he repeats, dipping his chin in a silent how-do-you-do, and I like the honeyed way those two syllables roll off his tongue. I've been hearing my own name all my life, but somehow it's never sounded quite like that before. "I'm Edward."

"Edward," I mimic, silently adding the _Cullen_, and he is still smiling as the public address system crackles to life.

"Attention United passengers, flight 351 to Seattle has been delayed; the incoming flight is grounded in St. Louis due to inclement weather. We will keep you posted with further updates. Thank you."

I sigh and take another scorching sip. Edward Cullen still hasn't returned the earbud to his ear, opting instead to stare at me, and I grow increasingly uneasy under his scrutiny. "What are you listening to?" I ask finally, gesturing toward his iPod.

"Pearl Jam," he replies.

"What song?"

"'Wishlist.'"

I am pleasantly surprised; I would have pegged him as considerably more likely to listen to a hard-core track like "Save You" over the mellower "Wishlist." "Good one," I say finally.

"You know Pearl Jam?" he asks, and I'm nearly insulted by his surprise.

I raise an eyebrow. "I'm from Washington State. Of _course _I know Pearl Jam."

An indulgent smile takes over his face. "Best song?"

A rather unladylike snort escapes my lips. "'Immortality,' live version."

"Interesting choice," he says. "Can't say I've ever heard the live version, though."

"Are you kidding me?"

He shrugs and I fish my iPhone and headphones out of the pocket of my jeans before I realize what I'm doing. I hesitate briefly before extending an earbud in his direction, suddenly overcome with uncertainty. If he notices I can't tell because he yanks his own earbud out of his ear and replaces it with mine. Relieved, I scroll through my playlist to find the track and hit play.

He gazes out the window as he listens, giving me the opportunity to study his features. His jaw is nearly a right angle, peppered with barely-there stubble in a copper hue matching his hair, which is slightly longer than the stereotypical Army cut but still relatively close to his head. Despite its short length, it seems to be growing in a million different directions, and I wonder idly what it would look like if it grew out. He has eyelashes longer and fuller than most women I know, and his eyes are a calming but vibrant shade of green. Suddenly the eyes that are the focus of my inspection find mine, and he offers me a small, warm smile. His teeth are ridiculously straight and even, and the instant realization of how physically attractive he is blindsides me like a city bus. How did I not notice when I first sat down?

Of course – because the first thing I noticed was the uniform.

"You're right, this is definitely superior to the studio version," he says, and I nod as my fingers drum on the armrest between us, idly wondering if he's serious or merely humoring me.

"I like most of their live stuff," I reply. "They're really great in concert."

"God, I'd love to see them live," he murmurs, still listening intently to the melody in his ear.

"You definitely should. It's worth it." The ending strains of the song fade, and before I can bring the screen back to life to hit stop, the next track in the shuffle begins. Edward grabs my hand. "Wait – leave it. This is a great song."

I'm somewhat impressed that he recognized the opening bars of Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks." We sit in companionable silence, and this time it's Edward's fingers that dance against the black leather armrest. His long, narrow, elegant fingers, which are attached to large hands and narrow wrists sprinkled with fair hair. I take another sip of my coffee and silently admonish myself to stop gawking at him. "This was without a doubt his best album," he says halfway through the song, and I'm impressed all over again. "The lyrics are pure poetry."

_Poetry?_ Breathtakingly green eyes, the jawline of a marble statue, eyelashes befitting a starlet, long fingers, _and_ he just used the word poetry. And just like that, I'm aroused in an airport terminal. God, I need a boyfriend.

Fading guitar chords draw me out of my self-reproach and I nod toward Edward's own iPod, discarded on his torso. "What's next in your queue?"

In lieu of answering, he hands me back my earphone and then hands me one of his own, which I obediently fit into my ear. He presses play and I listen intently, hoping stupidly that I'll be able to identify the track. After a few chords the song is familiar, and it only takes me a few more riffs to be able to place it.

"Dave Matthews," I say, and he smiles.

"Oldie but goodie," he says. "Not quite Pearl Jam, but it's enjoyable enough." We listen together and I am transported back to college, to a too-small dorm room and a guitar-laden soundtrack to study by. The song fades, and the next one starts. "Fuck," he breathes and stabs at the pause button but it's too late; I'd know that opening refrain anywhere.

"David Bowie?" I ask, eyebrow arched in wordless skepticism.

"Okay, first of all, Bowie is an icon, and secondly, 'Under Pressure' is one of those songs everyone has, whether he admits to it or not."

I want to argue but I can't; that same track is in my iTunes library sandwiched somewhere between Dave Matthews and David Gray, even if it hasn't made its way to my iPhone playlist. "True. Okay, truth: what's the most embarrassing song you have on there?" I tilt my head toward the iPod and he glances down, considering. I wonder if he's debating whether to confess, or if his taste in music is appalling enough that he's having trouble coming up with an answer. I'm having a hard time reconciling that with a guy who yearns to see Pearl Jam live when he sighs.

"Inner Circle," he says finally. "'Sweat.'"

I frown and he sighs again, scrolling through with one hand as he offers me an earbud once more. As soon as I am plugged in, I hear the familiar strains of a forgotten reggae hit in my ears and I laugh. "Oh my God. I forgot this song even _existed_."

He lets loose his own laugh. "I'm sure many people wish they could as well. I don't know, it's just… catchy." He moves his finger to stop it, but I still his hand.

"No, leave it. I haven't heard this in years." My head bobs and I try to ignore the unexpected flicker of heat that passed through me when I touched his skin.

"I'm going to ask you the same question when this is over, so be prepared," he murmurs, and I flush; whether it's at the anticipation of my pending embarrassment or the dulcet tones of his voice, I'm not sure. I scroll through my own list as our heads bob in tandem, and as his embarrassment draws to a close with the song, he replaces his earbud with mine and my own mortification begins.

"The Spice Girls?!" He exclaims, glee painted across his features. "You were giving me crap about David Bowie, and you have the_ Spice Girls_ on your iPhone?"

"Shut up," I say, even as I laugh. "'Wannabe' is like a cult classic."

He snorts. "Yeah, if we're talking about a cult of thirteen-year-olds wearing Union Jack tops and pink platform knee-high boots."

I have no argument for this very valid point, so I remain silent. Halfway through the song, the overhead speaker buzzes with a pending announcement and I pause the bubble gum pop song mid-"zig-a-zig-ah."

"Ladies and gentlemen, flight 1584 to New York has been delayed until tomorrow." The collective groan of discontent is so loud that the gate attendant has to allow it to die down before continuing. "Please see a United ticket agent to rearrange your travel plans if necessary." I chance a glance at Edward, who in turn faces me, a grin lighting his eyes as he wraps his earbud cord around the iPod.

"Breakfast?" he asks, and I am momentarily thrown as I unplug the earphones from my iPhone and return both items to the pocket of my jeans.

"I'm sorry?"

"Breakfast," he repeats.

"It's almost eleven o'clock at night." Even as I speak, the mental image of a stack of pancakes drenched in maple syrup makes my mouth water. Shouldn't he be irritated about this upheaval of his travel plans? I ask him as much and he shrugs.

"A few more hours on American soil? I'll take it as a late Christmas gift from Mother Nature. There's a really good place in the other terminal that serves breakfast around the clock. Decent coffee, too." He gestures toward my nearly empty Starbucks cup with a smirk. "Free refills, and it doesn't cost four bucks a pop."

"You had me at coffee," I say, rising from the seat and tossing my backpack over my shoulder.

* * *

By the time we are seated in the small diner-style café with steaming mugs of coffee in front of us, I have learned that Edward was home on a fifteen-day leave from Iraq for his middle brother's wedding, that he grew up just outside Chicago but went to college at Dartmouth, that he is tall and moves with the grace of a gazelle, and that he had just finished reading _Letters to a Young Poet_ when I showed up in the waiting area between Gates B7 and B9 with my overpriced latte and overweight carry-on.

"Why Rilke?" I ask, emptying a small creamer into my coffee and stirring it.

"My brother brought to my attention that it was a glaring omission in my literary education," he says, taking a sip of his own coffee.

"Is this the brother that got married?"

"Jasper," he confirms, nodding. "My other brother, Emmett, isn't really the reading type. Magazines notwithstanding."

"Which one's the bad influence?"

He chuckles, remembering his earlier faux pas. "Both. In equal measure, but in entirely opposite ways."

"Elaborate, please."

"Emmett is sort of a stereotype: hulking bear of a former college athlete with the sense of humor of a frat boy. He tells jokes that would make my mother smack him if he were ever stupid enough to tell them within earshot of her. But underneath it, he's a really decent guy, if a bit of a hornball. He's a detective with the Chicago PD now."

"And Jasper?"

"Jasper is… well, he's sort of a free spirit. He's into holistic healing and meditation and yoga and all sorts of new-age shit that would make anyone think he grew up in California with hippie parents if they didn't know better. He's pretty laid-back and soft-spoken, but he's very into sensation and emotion and how the two coincide – which is really all a nice way of saying that sex is his favorite hobby, and he regularly suggests I should give tantric sex a try." I choke on a mouthful of coffee, and Edward seems pleased. "Sorry." He doesn't sound sorry.

I wave off his apology. "And where do you fit in?"

He leans back in the booth and eyes me speculatively. "I'm the most dangerous of the three," he says finally. "You don't realize what a deviant I am until you really get to know me, and by then it's too late." He pins me with his gaze, and I am suddenly struck dumb by the depth of his eyes, a green a hundred times more vibrant than the muted shade that licks traces through his military-issued wardrobe. My mouth opens and closes; I'm relatively certain I must look like a goldfish. Finally he laughs, breaking me free of my stupor. "Bella, I'm kidding. I'm pretty boring. What you see is what you get." He shrugs, as if this is an apology.

"You're a soldier," I argue, ignoring the sexual implications of our exchange and steering us back onto conversational ground that I can navigate without feeling like I'm about to step on a land mine. "I'd say serving your country and being boring are mutually exclusive."

"You'd be surprised," he says.

"What do you do in the Army?" I ask.

"I'm part of an EOD team – that stands for Explosive Ordnance Disposal," he explains. "We disassemble and dispose of explosive devices; we're basically the military equivalent of the bomb squad." His explanation suddenly halts and he glances around us. When he returns his gaze to mine, a mischievous glint has taken up residence in his eyes. "Whoops. Probably shouldn't say the b-word in an airport."

I laugh. "Probably not, though if anyone could get away with it, I'm guessing it'd be you."

His smirk tells me that he's taking this as a compliment and I smile in return. "See? That's the antithesis of boring." Then the awareness of what he's said infiltrates my brain. "Wait… you're telling me that while everyone else over there is running away from bombs, you're walking toward them?"

His shoulders hitch in an approximation of a shrug. "Pretty much."

"What on earth would possess you to do that?"

His eyes narrow. "Have you been talking to my mother?" The momentary concern that I've hit a nerve dissipates as a sly smile stretches lazily across his face.

"What if I said yes?"

"I wouldn't be at all surprised." The smile graduates to a chuckle, and he stirs his coffee for a moment before the amusement bleeds from his face. I shuffle sugar packets between my fingers and watch him twirl a spoon between his nimble fingers. I've nearly convinced myself that he's going to ignore my question altogether when he speaks, his voice a low murmur.

"You know how everyone has that story about where they were on September 11th?" I nod, flashing briefly to a dorm room on the opposite side of the country and waking to breaking news updates on the alarm radio instead of pop songs. "I was sleeping off a bender in my dorm room and woke up to my mother's panicked voice on my answering machine," he continues. "My father was at a medical conference in Manhattan that morning, and of course she couldn't get in touch with him." Off my look, he shakes his head. "He's fine. Was fine. _Is _fine. He was uptown, nowhere near the Financial District at all. But I had a friend who graduated the year before who had just started as a trader with a firm based in the World Trade Center. He was fine, too. Everyone I knew was fine, even though they could just as easily have not been fine, and there were so many people who weren't fine." He pauses to sip his coffee, and his green eyes are miles – and years – away. "I just felt like I needed to _do_ something. I thought becoming a doctor was how I was going to do something, but my dad was a doctor. That morning, as soon as they heard what was happening, a bunch of them hauled ass over to St. Vincent's because it was as close as they could get to the site, and do you know what surprised him? There was no one to help. All of these hospitals, all of these doctors were standing around in surgical gowns and latex gloves just waiting for this rush of bleeding, broken people to come streaming in so they could start helping, and they just… never came. There was no one to help. The damage had already been done, and no number of doctors could undo it." He glances up at me, and I have no idea what my face looks like. If it matches my insides, it's a jumble of horror and surprised anguish. "Sorry. This is kind of a heavy conversation to have with someone you just met. And over breakfast, to boot." I shake my head and wait for him to continue, glad when he does. "I finished college in May and joined the Army in June. My parents were understandably upset, but not nearly as much as when they found out what I was specializing in."

"What made you decide on… that?"

His broad, camouflage-encased shoulders hitch slightly in an approximation of a shrug. "I was pre-med. Took a lot of science and chemistry. Chemistry's a good background to have if you're going to be working with explosives."

"I'd imagine," I breathe, and I wonder if he'd be less attractive in a set of doctor's scrubs. The answer from my own imagination is a resounding no.

"I also… it felt more like prevention than aggression, somehow." This revelation is unexpectedly candid, and in that moment I feel closer to Edward Cullen than I do to far too many of the people in my life. As I am trying to make sense of the sudden pull I feel toward a stranger, our server appears with a plate of buttermilk pancakes for me and what the menu describes as a "Hungry Man Breakfast" for him: essentially, a platter that includes every single breakfast food known to man. His face is alight with glee as she places it in front of him, and I am suddenly knocked in the ribs by the desire to take his picture.

"Awesome," he breathes after he thanks the waitress, unwrapping his silverware and draping the napkin purposefully in his lap. _He has manners_, I think as he sprinkles pepper on his scrambled eggs. "I love breakfast food."

I am smiling like an idiot at my pancakes, and I drizzle a puddle of maple syrup over the stack. "Me too."

"So, Bella… wait, what's your last name?"

"Swan." There was absolutely no hesitation there; Charlie would be appalled at my apparently instant disregard of his years of training.  
"So, Bella _Swan_," he amends around a mouthful of egg. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a photographer," I say, cutting a pie-shaped wedge out of my pancakes and bringing it to my lips. "Photojournalist, actually," I clarify around the mouthful.

"That's amazing," he says; his voice is genuine. "For a newspaper?"

"Yeah. Right now I work for a small weekly in Seattle, but that's just temporary."

"How come?" Suddenly my career aspirations seem grandiose if not naïve, and I hesitate, cutting another bite and filling my mouth again. He frowns. "What?"

I chew as slowly as I can without it being obvious. "Well, right now I take pictures of things like Fourth of July parades and ribbon-cuttings and high school debate teams. I, uh… I'm hoping to take pictures of more substantial things in the future."

"Like?"

I sigh. _Don't be a coward._ "I'd like to work for the Associated Press and take pictures in war zones."

His fork pauses halfway to his mouth and he swallows, even though his mouth is empty. He returns the utensil to his plate. "Why?"

"Because it's real," I say, wanting to defend my decision nearly as much as I don't want to make light of what he must have seen without the filter of a camera lens.

"There's real everywhere, if you know how to look for it," he says. His gentle voice belies the argument in his words.

"Yes," I agree. "But our concept of reality pales in comparison to other people's realities."

"Yes," he says, and we sit in silence for a moment until the waitress reappears beside our table.

"How is everything?"

"Terrific," Edward says, but his eyes don't leave my face.

"Wonderful," I echo, and she retreats, dismissed.

His eyes pass over my face and his mouth twitches, as if he's searching for words. "It's hard," he says finally. "Seeing things. Real things."

I nod. "That's why it's important that people see them."

Green eyes drop to his plate, and he pushes his eggs around with his fork. When he speaks again, his voice is so soft I lean forward to hear him, trying not to dip my hair in maple syrup. "I agree. I guess I'm just slightly uncomfortable with the idea of someone like you being the one showing them."

My stomach drops, and I don't have any time to school my features before he lifts his eyes to search my face. I shake my head, but I have no verbal response for him. I cut another wedge of pancake and stuff it into my mouth, forcing myself to chew and swallow despite the fact that what was so mouthwatering mere moments ago now has a consistency not unlike sawdust. For a few minutes that stretch out like an eon, growing heavier between us with each passing moment, we are silent, the only sounds at our small booth the occasional clink of forks against china plates.

The waitress – _Abby_, her nametag informs me – reappears with a pot of coffee. "Refills?"

"Please," we say in unison, and Edward chances a glance at my face. I flush at being caught looking at him, and our silence reappears as we watch our twin mugs get refilled before Abby vanishes once again.

I wonder idly how our easy conversation from earlier about his troublemaking brothers nose-dived so spectacularly into this awkward silence. I speak before I can think. "I bet you're wishing we had stuck to talking about tantric sex, huh?" The moment the words escape my mouth, he is choking on a mouthful of toast. "Shit! Sorry. Here!" I shove the small glass of water across the table, and it sloshes out as he grabs it and drains it in three long swallows. A curled fist pounds his chest, and green watery eyes focus on me.

"Jesus, Bella."

"Sorry," I offer again. I'm not really sorry, though, because suddenly his green eyes are a shade darker than before, his voice is breathless, and there is a hummingbird flutter where my stomach used to be.

* * *

"Thank you again for breakfast. Slash-dinner."

Edward grins at me, hands once again resting on the shoulder straps of his camouflage knapsack. "It was the least I could do, really, after talking about your bedroom and tantric sex within half an hour of meeting you."

"True. You're really very indecent."

He beams. "My brothers would be delighted to hear you say that." I laugh. _I want to meet his brothers._ We stand just outside the entrance of the café, gazing around at displaced travelers making the most of being stuck in an airport with no escape. From the corner of my eye, I see one of Edward's hands travel from his shoulder strap to run through his hair. "I'm so bad at this part."

"What part?"

"Like, at the end of a date. I'm so awkward at saying goodnight." The hitch in my breath is audible, and he flushes; I'm becoming alarmingly fond of the way the skin at the back of his neck and the tips of his ears turns pink. "Shit." He shifts his weight, his combat boots shuffling on the diamond-patterned industrial carpet. "That came out so completely wrong. I think dear Abby must have slipped a Roofie in my coffee; I've lost all self-restraint."

"Self-restraint is overrated." That came out far more breathless than I would have liked, but I can't bring myself to regret it when I see the look on his face: surprise and relief and gratitude and something that looks a lot like provocation. I shrug, searching for something that will get us back on our formerly comfortable conversational track. "Besides, after this date, we'd be saying good morning." That wasn't it. His eyebrows jump to somewhere near his hairline and he exhales in a rush. As the implication of what I've said hits me, I close my eyes, willing the tidal wave of mortification to just carry me through the airport and back to my gate, where I can plug myself into my iPod and ignore the entire world. Honestly, you'd think I was fifteen years old. "Oh, God."

"Nope," comes his voice, laced with something I haven't heard before. "That'd be said the night _before_ the morning."

I really might explode. Right here, on this ugly airport carpet, a puddle of Bella with shards of my self-restraint and wit and composure lying all around.

"What?" he asks when I don't open my eyes.

"I think I might explode," I say, wondering where and when I lost my filter.

"Good thing you're hanging out with me, then," he breathes. "I'm very adept at handling volatile materials."

I open my eyes and throw us into reverse, attempting to gather up what's left of my poise with trembling hands. "I meant because it's after midnight. That's why we'd be saying good morning. Not because we… well, y'know." Nope. No poise to be found here.

Another smile from him and thankfully, mercifully, he plays along. "I got it. Besides, I'm not really the type to let you steal my virtue on the first date, anyway."

"Is that a fact?"

He nods in mock solemnity. "I'm really quite the prude."

"I'll bet."

"I'm a source of eternal disappointment for my brothers."

"Tell them you broached the delicate topic tantric sex with a virtual stranger, and I'm sure they'll see your unrealized potential."

"I'll do that."

We stand in awkward silence for a few moments before my eyes spot a newsstand a few storefronts down the terminal. "Do you need anything for your flight?"

Confusion draws his brows together. "What?"

I start walking, silently willing him to follow me, and equal parts relieved and elated when he does. "I was going to pick up a magazine or something," I say, gesturing toward the nearby Hudson News franchise.

"Okay," he says, not telling whether or not he intends to purchase anything, and a giddy satisfaction courses through me at the possibility that he might just want to accompany me. "What magazine are we looking for? _Cosmopolitan_?" His brow puckers. "No, you're not the _Cosmo_ type, are you? _Vanity Fair_. No, that's not it either." He taps long fingers against his chin in mock consideration. "I bet you were a _Jane_ type of girl when it was around, weren't you? Girl stuff with a bit of an edge. _Ms._ Magazine? Do you get your inner feminista on?"

He's getting progressively more pleased with himself, and I feel the need to drag him back to Earth. "You certainly know your way around the women's magazine shelf, Edward. I admit, I'm a little concerned about your proclivities now; perhaps your brothers should be more worried about you than I thought."

He grins. "Too much time in airports," he confesses. "And your magazines have hotter cover models than _Men's Health._"

I laugh. "Point." We enter the newsstand and I break toward the magazine wall, bypassing the women's shelf entirely and throwing him a pointed look as I do so. Instead, I approach a spinning rack that houses my go-to reads: _Newsweek_ and _TIME_. I grab a copy of _The_ _Chicago Tribune_ for good measure and hug my stack of reading materials to my body, turning to see him bent at the waist, squinting at the cover of a magazine on a low-sitting shelf. "Hot cover model?" I guess, following his gaze, and he chuckles.

"You could say that." He points to one of the women's fitness magazines. "My brother Emmett's ex-girlfriend. I thought she looked familiar."

I stare at the glossy cover, stunned. I've never known anyone on the cover of a magazine, and Edward seems entirely nonplussed at the fact that he does. "Are you serious?"

He nods. "Tanya. They dated in college."

Curiosity about Edward's family railroads me. A doctor father, a son who joined the U.S. Army after graduating pre-med from Dartmouth, another son who dates magazine cover models when he's not eradicating crime from the streets of Chicago, and a third son who is apparently a combination of Sting and the Maharishi. I can't even attempt to rein in my curiosity. "What does your mother do?"

"She teaches college literature," he says, and the softness in his eyes is endearing. "She also started and runs a charity for at-risk youth here in Chicago and sits on the board of a few other children's charities."

"You're like a Kennedy, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Like, big family, all perfect, all beautiful."

He beams. "You think I'm beautiful?"

Warmth creeps up my neck, and I shuffle through my magazines so I have something to do with my hands. I do think he's beautiful, especially when he's smiling at me like that, and I want to kick myself for tipping my hand so spectacularly. "You know what I mean."

"I know it takes one to know one, Bella Swan."

"Smooth talker," I say, even as the warmth escalates into an inferno. "Like I said. Kennedy."

"I'm far more honest than a Kennedy," he says, and I don't know if he's alluding to the fact that he called me beautiful or if this is just a general declaration, so I opt for deflection.

"Are you going to buy Tanya's magazine?" I ask.

"I don't think so," he says, eyebrow raised. "Unless you have a pressing need for an issue of _Shape_?"

"Um. No."

"Okay then."

I make my way toward the register, and Edward follows close enough behind me that I can feel the air move around us. I'm still stuck on the fact that he called me beautiful as I hand my purchases to the teller and dig in the side pocket of my backpack for my wallet. My attention momentarily diverted from Edward, I barely notice when he spins a rack and a surprised exclamation escapes his mouth. "No way!"

"What?" I ask as the cashier asks for eleven dollars and change. I fish out the appropriate number of bills and search for the exact coins to make the total. Edward's long fingers appear in my line of vision.

"They have my name!" He sounds like a six-year-old.

"That's wonderful, Edward." In turn I sound like a kindergarten teacher, which seems entirely appropriate.

"You don't understand. They _never_ have Edward on _anything._" His glee is so palpable that I tamp down on the urge to point out that a keychain with an Illinois license plate on it is hardly befitting a man his age. I go for empathy instead.

"Tell me about it. _Bella_ isn't exactly a best-seller, either."

He returns to the rack, a man on a mission, and after a moment he plucks a second keychain from the spinning stand. "You'll never believe it."

"Yeah, right." I roll my eyes but he holds it out toward me, and sure enough, my name is staring back at me.

"It's a sign," he says, slapping both key chains on the counter in front of the bemused cashier, who has been watching our exchange impassively. "We were meant to have commemorative key chains."

"Commemorating what, exactly?" I ask, even as a small thrill runs through me at the notion that he thinks something about today is worth memorializing.

He shrugs, suddenly embarrassed as he slides a few bills out of his worn leather wallet. "The great Chicago blizzard of 2012?" he proposes, shaking off the cashier's offer of a bag and handing my "Bella" key chain to me. When his eyes find mine, though, something tells me he doesn't much care about the snow.

"Excellent call," I say, taking the token and grinning up at him. "Thank you for my souvenir."

"Bella, it's my pleasure." His eyes dance. Definitely not because of the weather.

We emerge once again into the gaping mouth of the terminal and look both ways, as if we're waiting curbside to cross a busy street. I am immediately anxious to come up with something else to do, scared that in the face of boredom he will opt to go back to the gate and this – whatever _this_ is – will be over. "Smoothies?" I suggest, despite the fact that we just gorged ourselves on breakfast food. We didn't have dessert, and smoothies count. Sort of.

He wrinkles his nose. "Ew."

"Ew?" I repeat. "What's 'ew' about a smoothie?"

"If I'm going to eat something that cold, it better have whipped cream and chocolate sauce and sprinkles on it," he states. "I don't need to grind up all sorts of freaky granola-crunchy hippie-food with ice and call it a meal replacement."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, Edward. Let me show you the error of your ways." I grab him by the crook of his arm, attempting valiantly to ignore the ripple of muscle that I can feel even through the thick fabric of his jacket, and drag him in the direction of the nearby smoothie hut.

* * *

The tinny ring of a cell phone spills into the silence between us, and Edward's long fingers disappear into the pocket of his pants to retrieve an iPhone. He glances at the screen and grins. "This'll be entertaining." Then, into the phone, "Hello?" A beat. "Hi, Jasper. Still at O'Hare. For the night." Pause. "Early morning flight out, probably; I'll let you know the connections when I have them." A breath. "Just… hanging out. Killing time." He glances at me. "I'm having a smoothie." I can faintly hear an expression of surprise, and a small smile pulls at Edward's lips, which have become ever-so-slightly pinker thanks to his smoothie. I should probably feel pathetic that I even notice a barely noticeable change in his lip color, or embarrassed, at the very least. "Yes, you've been right this whole time. Smoothies are wonderful. Though, to be fair, this particular one is made with strawberries and raspberries and yogurt and has none of that disgusting stuff you throw in yours… what was it again? Algae and wheat germ?" I wrinkle my nose, and Edward catches it. "I know, right?" he murmurs to me, angling the mouthpiece of the phone away from his mouth for a moment. "Bella," he says, back to his phone conversation. "Bella Swan. Fellow displaced traveler." He pauses, watching me as his brother speaks. "Mm-hmm. Okay. Hey, is that Sophie in the background? What's she still doing awake?" He laughs. "Okay." Suddenly, the phone is on the table between us, and he taps the speaker button. "My niece," he murmurs to me a split second before a high-pitched child's voice peals through the speaker.

"Unca Edward!"

"Hiya, butterbean," he says, grinning at the phone, and a warmth suffuses my body. "What are you still doing up? It's so far past your bedtime it's almost tomorrow!"

"Funderstorm," comes the one-word answer. "Mommy let me get in her bed but I can't sleep 'cause 'a the funder."

"Well guess what, bean?"

"What?"

"Your thunderstorm is a _snowstorm_ here in Chicago."

"Snow?" the child's voice breathes in awe, and Edward glances at me.

"_Southern California_," he mouths before bringing his straw to his lips, and I nod in understanding. "Unca Edward, Mommy said you got laid in Chicago."

Edward's reaction is a sitcom-worthy spit-take, and suddenly I am in a shower of pink smoothie, most of which lands in a spray of dots across my white blouse.

"DElayed, Sophie. DElayed," we hear in the background as Edward stares in horror at my shirt, and I dab delicately at the spatters on my face. There is a faint shuffle on the phone before a woman's voice comes through. "Edward." Sophie's mother has clearly wrestled the phone from her verbally limited child. "Edward, I said nothing about you getting laid in Chicago. I said you got DElayed in Chicago. Though if you got laid in Chicago, by all means, now would be a wonderful time to share. Was it one of my bridesmaids? Please tell me it was Jill; you will have made her year, and I can finally stop dodging her requests for your phone number."

"Alice," Edward groans, turning off the speaker function and bringing the phone to his ear with one hand, as the other claws wildly at the napkin dispenser at the edge of the table. "I have to go. Kiss Sophie for me, and keep that husband of yours in line." He ends the call without a goodbye and stares at me, a flower cluster of napkins in his fist. "God, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Edward. I don't even really like this shirt. You did me a favor."

"Yeah, but you're going to be wearing it for hours," he argues, and I can see despair painting his features. His brows knit together, a small crease forming between them, and his eyes flash as they stare at my ruined blouse. His strawberry-stained lips purse and something jumps near the hinge of his jaw. If possible, his distressed face might be nearly as attractive as his smile. I am suddenly aware of the fact that he is glaring at my shirt as if he can erase the stains by sheer force of will.

"Oh, I see," I joke, desperate to ease his self-reproach. "This was all part of a ploy to have free range to stare at my chest."

Those green eyes fly to mine, and his formerly pursed lips spread in an "o" of surprise. "What? I wasn't…" He trails off at my smile, and his eyes narrow, this time in playfulness. "If I were that forward-thinking, Bella, I'd have spilled a whole hell of a lot more than a few drops on you so that you'd have had to take it _off_."

As soon as the words are out of his mouth I _want_ to take it off, because it's awfully _hot_ all of a sudden. "Fair point," I choke out and take a sip of my smoothie in an attempt to combat the heat rising in my body.

He rubs the back of his neck before pushing his chair from the table, the movement sudden and jerky and completely devoid of the grace I was admiring earlier. He heaves his bag onto his lap and unzips one of the many compartments, rummaging around inside and muttering to himself. After a moment, he withdraws a gray rolled-up piece of cloth, which he thrusts in my direction. "Here."

I take the cloth, which is so soft I am momentarily transported to the wash-worn sheets of my childhood twin bed. "Edward, it's fine; the napkins are doing the job."

He shakes his head. "It's a shirt," he informs me, taking it back and unrolling it to shake it out. "Obviously it'll be big, but it's long-sleeved so at least it'll be warm. Sort of."

I mirror his head-shake. "Really, it's fine." Even as I say it, the desire to slip the silk-soft cotton over my head floods through me. Almost as if he can tell, he holds the now-unrolled shirt out to me once again, and I take it despite my protests. I begin to unbutton my shirt and his eyes widen; I pause at the third button. "I'm wearing a tank top," I tell him, and he swallows. I watch his Adam's apple bounce, and I clutch the shirt to my chest, rising from the table. "Maybe I'll just find a bathroom. Can you watch my bag?" He nods wordlessly and I bolt, at once mortified and energized by his obvious reaction to my impulsive half-attempt to disrobe in his presence. Perhaps I'm not the only one feeling unsettled by more than just the weather.

I weave my way through the sea of people wandering aimlessly through the terminal and find the nearest women's restroom, slipping into a stall and draping Edward's shirt over the hook on the back of the chrome metal door. I resume unbuttoning, watching my warped and indistinct reflection in the door's surface. Sliding the smoothie-spattered shirt off my shoulders, I swap it for the soft cotton and pull the new shirt over my head. Comfort is instantaneous, and I shiver slightly as the cool material settles against my heated skin. A trace of fragrant detergent dances around me, and I wonder if this is what Edward smells like; the errant thought makes my heart race, and I ball up my white shirt and swing open the stall door. Out of habit, I make my way to the sinks and stare at my reflection: my eyes are dancing with something different and bright spots of color sit high on my cheeks. Edward's shirt, a heather gray long-sleeved tee with "Army" printed in black across the chest, dwarfs me. A smile creeps unbidden across my face, and I immediately sober.

_You're an idiot. _My inner Bella may be a bitch, but she's right. I look like this, feel like this, because of a man I just met who is leaving for a destination halfway around the world where he will be playing chicken with unexploded bombs built by medieval terrorists. We are literally flying in two opposite directions in a matter of hours, and I'll probably never see him again, even if he does make it out of the Middle East unharmed. The inner voice advises me to return to the stall and lose the shirt but I can't. I glare at myself and spin away from my reflection, emerging once again into a sea of people.

"You know," Edward says conversationally as I approach the table, his previously distraught eyes back to the twinkling mirth that I'm beginning to suspect is their default mode, "You shouldn't leave your bags unattended or in the company of strangers. There are announcements to that effect on repeat loop." He waves his hand overhead in a vague gesture to the PA system.

I shrug, bending to bury my ruined shirt in my backpack before straightening and meeting his eyes. "I think we've surpassed the stranger portion of the program, don't you?"

Edward considers me for a moment and glances away from my face and down to his shirt before his expression sobers, his eyes hooded. "Yes. I'd say we have." There is a faint scraping sound, and I look away from the intensity of his eyes to see that he's pushing and pulling on the red straw of his now-empty smoothie, thrusting it in and out of the Styrofoam cup. The motion is erotically reminiscent of something else, and heat licks at my body.

"Have you ever had a pedicure?" I blurt in an effort to divert the pending flush of my cheeks.

He frowns at my abrupt conversational lane-change. "Pardon?"

"A pedicure. There's a stand in Terminal 1 that actually has massage chairs, and a couple of Asian women do pedicures and foot massages. It's amazingly relaxing. I don't know if they're still there, but it seems like all of the stores are still open. Snowed in, I guess. We could go see."

His frown deepens. "Aren't pedicures a chick thing?"

"Chick thing?"

"Bella, if I go into a combat zone with red toenails, I'll get my ass handed to me, and I don't mean by jihadists. My own unit would never let me live it down."

A laugh escapes me before I can rein it in. "You don't have to get them _painted_," I say, the "duh" thick in my voice. "You just… soak your feet and get a foot rub and stuff. Come on. I made my friend Jake do it with me once and he loved it."

"I'll bet," he murmurs, so low I nearly don't catch it. I'm about to ask for clarification, when my words reverberate in my head. _I made my friend Jake do it with me once._ My cheeks flame, and Edward grins in unbridled glee at my obvious discomfort. "This Jake… lucky fella."

I smirk. "Same could be said for Jill." Was that subtle? I hope so, but I doubt it.

He smirks right back. "Ah, yes. Jill." Jealousy, ugly, thick, and green, sweeps through me; I am assaulted by the unwelcome image of Edward sitting in lotus position with a naked girl in his lap. Damn his tantric sex-pushing brother and matchmaking sister-in-law. "Jill's not really my type," he confesses, his voice determinedly casual.

"Oh?" I'm going for disinterested nonchalance, but something tells me I miss the mark by a good mile or so. If his grin is any indication, he can tell. The grin is overtaken by a smirk as he fishes in his pocket and retrieves his phone once again; tapping at the screen, he frowns slightly, sliding a long, elegant finger across the surface a few times. _Great, now I'm jealous of an iPhone screen. Get a grip, Swan._ He interrupts my silent self-deprecation to show me a photo. "That's Jill."

Jill is a freaking supermodel. She's blond, tan, tall, and has boobs that look like his sister's choice of bridesmaid dress had a full-time job containing them. I'm getting my dander up to hate her on sight when I'm distracted by the rest of the picture: Edward, grinning, in a tuxedo. Untied black bow-tie hanging loose around his neck. Top button undone. Jacket open. Sex on legs.

Desire, swift like a gut-shot.

Self-ridicule, a one-two punch.

"That's Jill," I echo when I find my voice, which I had to coax to life from somewhere near my toes. "How is _that_ not your type? That's _every_ guy's type."

"Not mine," he says with a shrug that's not quite casual. "I'm more into brunettes."

Another gut-shot and I'm on the mat. I should tap out.

"Hm." Non-committal is the only response I can find, and my lack of a witty retort seems to throw Edward for a loop. He shifts in his seat and retracts his phone as I shift my weight, debating whether or not to sit down. He swipes the screen once more, and the corner of his mouth tugs upward as he extends it in my direction once more. "Sophie," he says, smile growing. "She of the limited enunciation skills."

The little girl is adorable – rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed, dark-haired, and wearing a frilly cream-colored dress. I am immediately taken not only with her but with the second photo of Edward I've ever seen. His niece is perched on his hip, chubby arms around his neck, beaming. Edward's hands support her weight, his long fingers folded together beneath her small body, a warm but relaxed grin on his face; in this one, his bow tie is still tied. "She's beautiful," I say, omitting the fact that so is he. "Who does she look like?"

"Alice, mostly." He pulls the phone back, glancing at it once more before turning off the screen and slipping it into his pocket. "Alice has the dark hair and blue eyes, but she's got Jasper's dimples."

"How old is she?"

"She turned four in September," he says, and I love that he doesn't even have to think about it. "She was born shortly after Alice graduated from college." He smirks. "About nine months after, to be exact." I laugh, and he continues. "But they'd been together forever, and both knew they'd eventually get married, so they just decided they were doing things a little bit out of order." He cocks his head. "Which is really very them." I am struck again by the desire to meet these people he loves, and the recollection of my inner voice's scathing restroom diatribe must show on my face because his humor dies on his face. "What?"

I shake my head, but something about Edward is like a truth serum. "They just… sound really special."

He nods. "They are." But he says nothing more, waiting for me to continue.

"They sound like people I would like."

Those green eyes are troubled, and I wonder if his thoughts are meandering down the same path that mine have already taken. "You would. They would like you, too." The teasing tone that has laced all of his words is gone, and I miss it; something about this new tenor, tinged with concern and confusion and maybe even a little bit of regret, makes it hard to breathe. Suddenly, he bounces out of his seat and shrugs into his knapsack. "Foot rubs?"

"Foot rubs," I agree, and breathing resumes as I fall into step beside him.

* * *

"Well, that's disappointing," Edward says, frowning at the shuttered stand and the folded up massage chairs. "All that talk of foot massages got me very worked up. Now I'll never know how magical they are."

"I can't believe this is the _one _place that isn't open!" I nearly wail. "I mean, come ON… an airport chock-full of irritable people who have pretzeled themselves into tiny, uncomfortable chairs for HOURS… how is a place with massage chairs the only one closed?" He spins to me, his face a picture of delight. "What?" I demand, thrown.

"A Bella Swan tantrum," he beams.

"I'm just saying," I huff. "It seems counter-intuitive."

"No, no, I'm enthralled. It's like a nature program up close, when you see animals in their natural habitat, acting on instincts. No holds barred. In this case, it's a matter of denied female desire. It's fascinating."

I swipe at him, landing an open-palmed smack on his shoulder. "Shut up."

His mouth falls open and his eyes widen as he grips the shoulder I assaulted. "Ow."

My eyes roll. "Please. I barely even touched you. Besides, you're an Army man; I doubt I could hurt you if I tried."

"No, you definitely hurt me," he argues, rubbing his shoulder gently and tossing me an aggrieved pout. It affects me far more than I'm willing to admit, and my mind is doing an ill-advised constant replay of his voice saying "female desire." He continues, oblivious to my somersaulting insides as his hand works at his bicep. "And the massage place is closed; this is going to seize up and could potentially lead to chronic pain that would prevent me from doing my job."

"That's not even where I hit you. A minute ago you were rubbing your shoulder."

His pout deepens and his hand stills. "You just assaulted an officer of the United States Army and you're not even going to offer to make up for it?"

"You just got finished advising me against leaving my luggage with you, and now you want me rubbing you?" Realizing my mistake the instant his eyebrows jump, I hold up my hand between us. And, judging by the way his mouth hangs half-open, not a minute too soon. "Don't even touch that one."

"I wouldn't dare."

As he makes his peace with the knowledge that I won't be playing masseur, my mind is running rampant with all of the wonderful ways I would, in fact, be willing to rub him. "Something tells me you don't get shot down too often," I guess.

A sigh escapes his lips. "Chicks usually dig the uniform," he confesses, and he has the good grace to look more than mildly embarrassed at this admission, even though he's partly kidding.

"My dad was a cop," I reply, shrugging. "Uniforms don't really do much for me." The half-lie slips easily enough past my lips. Cop uniforms don't do anything for me, but something about Edward in fatigues and the way the colors make his eyes a brilliant green make parts of me clench in anticipation.

"Too bad. What now?" he asks, looking around as if inspiration is poised to strike from behind a nearby corner.

"I don't know," I confess as we drift away from the closed pedicure stand and amble through Terminal 1. I gaze impassively at the illuminated billboard-style ads that line the walls, and halt in front of one boasting a world map.

"My geography sucks," I admit, squinting at the region of the world that I see regularly highlighted on CNN until my eyes find Afghanistan. It's quite literally half a world away from the diamond-pattered square of carpet on which we're standing, if not more.

Edward stands beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, following my gaze. "They paint all the countries different colors, but once you're over there it just seems like one big sand pit, miles and miles of the same in every direction."

"I've never been farther east than New York," I admit, and he glances at me before returning his gaze to the map.

"Where else in the U.S.?" he asks, his eyes scanning the continental United States.

"Well, New York and Seattle, obviously."

"And Chicago," he adds.

I frown. "Does the airport count?"

He shrugs. "Maybe not. You've never been to Chicago before?"

"Nope."

"Hm. It's a nice city. You should come back sometime."

"I should," I agree, and the tension that rises is nearly palpable.

"Where else?" he presses.

"San Francisco, Lake Tahoe, Phoenix, and Daytona Beach."

He arches an eyebrow. "Daytona Beach is the only other place you've been on the East Coast?"

I shrug. "Spring break trip."

A small smile slides across his face. "Ah." Another glance at the map. "We need push-pins."

Inspiration strikes and I rummage around in the front pocket of my backpack; when I retrieve my hand, I'm clutching a four-pack of neon-colored Post-it flags. Off his surprised look, I shrug. "I like to flag what I'm reading," I say and hand him the yellow and green sets. "Yellow on the places you've been, green on the places you want to go." I begin my own map with the orange and pink flags, sticking pink strips to all the cities I named, as well as Forks, Tacoma, San Diego, and Portland. I tap the orange ones against my lips for a few moments before pinning them to Boston, Oahu, Anchorage, Calgary, Quebec, and Rio de Janeiro. Stepping around him I continue, orange flags appearing over Tibet, Singapore, Melbourne, Dubai, Dublin, London, Madrid, Santorini, and Marseilles.

"Wow," I hear from beside me, and I pause in my pseudo-wallpapering to glance at him before looking back at the glass before us. A smattering of yellow post-it strips litter the Middle East and continental Europe, with green ones beside mine in Dublin and London; more greens appear to be peppered across the U.S. When I glace at his face, his eyes are searching mine. "I've spent a lot of time away from home," he says, something almost weary in his voice. "Once I'm done, I'd like to spend more time exploring the homeland."

I train my eyes on the map once again; he's put green strips over San Diego, San Francisco, Maui, Washington, D.C., Boulder, and Big Sky, Montana. He's also put flags over the states of Maine, Vermont, and New Hampshire. It doesn't escape me that the desert-like southwest has been avoided altogether.

"I like green places," he says, as if he's read my mind. "Actually I'd like to drive across the country."

"Route 66?"

"In at least one direction," he nods, glancing at the map once more.

"We'll rack up a lot of frequent flier miles," I say absently, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel a small bubble of embarrassment in my chest. "I mean, individually. Not… together. I didn't mean it like that."

"Traveling alone can get… lonely," he says after a moment, his voice and expression carefully neutral, his focus still on our collage of neon-colored markers. I'm struggling for the appropriate response when he glances down at me. "Should we leave them up?"

I shrug. "Why not? We can leave our mark on O'Hare."

He nods and I return the leftover flags to my bag. We resume our stroll through the terminal until we reach yet another storefront boasting Chicago souvenirs as well as a rack of seemingly unidentifiable items labeled merely as "travel needs." Edward steps inside.

"Who actually buys this stuff?" he wonders aloud, flipping a navy blue inflatable neck pillow over in his hands. "This looks like a miniature version of the pillow Alice used to nurse Sophie. No self-respecting man would drape one of these around his neck; it's practically Freudian."

There are too many interesting parts of that sentence for me to focus on just one, so I finally settle for saying simply, "You'd be surprised." I lift a packet of outlet adapters. "_This_, however, is a complete rip-off. Who needs adapters for Great Britain, South Africa, Russia, _and_ Australia all at the same time? You have to buy all four to get the one you need."

"Donald Trump?" he guesses finally.

"Yeah, I don't really see The Donald spending his vacation time in Cape Town," I argue, glancing at the cashier, who looks like he's trying to muster up the energy to glare at us. The effort falls short though, and he merely gazes at us with an expression of vaguely irritated boredom.

"Valid point. Another winner." He holds up a travel alarm clock shaped like an egg. "Everyone under the age of 40 has a cell phone with an alarm function, and everyone over the age of 40 wears a watch. Useless." He dumps the offending item back into the basket with its friends.

I hold up a small bright red plastic case the size of a playing card in my right hand, and a bright yellow one in my left. "Body wash sheets and shampoo sheets," I announce, and Edward frowns.

"I'm on the fence about whether that's weird or smart, but I'm definitely leaning toward weird." I return the cases to their baskets as Edward's voice carries over the rack again. "Waterproof credit card sleeves. What, in case of a so-called 'water landing'? Do they really think a passenger's first concern will be keeping the contents of his wallet dry?"

"Yeah, that's stupid," I agree as I grab a plastic sleeve outlined in hot pink and peer at the label before waving it in the air in triumph. Edward glances up from the other side of the rack, squinting over the chest-high shelf between us. "What is that?"

"Disposable panties!" I crow.

He recoils. "Why on _earth_—" Suddenly he trails off, holding his hands up. "You know what? Forget it. Whatever the reason is, I'm sure I don't want to know."

I consider the packet for a moment. Suddenly, I can't figure out if I've chosen the most ridiculous travel accessory ever invented or if I've unwittingly stumbled across an unknown gem with the power to change my life. Disposable underwear suddenly seems like something that no one ever needs until they realize they need it, at which point it's too late. Still, Edward's nearly visceral horror at my discovery prevents me from verbalizing this debate, or from actually purchasing the throwaway bikini briefs. I return them to their basket and glance over the rack again to where Edward is standing, shaking his head. He meets my eye and sighs. "I've got nothing," he admits. "Nothing on this side can even come close to the disposable panties."

We meet at the end of the aisle and stroll toward the perimeter of the store. As we walk, I'm trying to ignore the effect Edward's voice saying "panties" has had on me, at the same time I'm trying to envision a scenario in which I can get him to say it again. His voice interrupts my hormone-fueled plotting from where he's paused in front of a rack with travel-sized toiletries on display.

"Okay. I realize we've had an overabundance of sex-related conversation for two people who just met, but I have to ask: have you ever wondered what type of person buys condoms in an airport?"

I tap my fingers against my chin and stare at the ceiling, giving his question the thorough consideration it deserves. "Honeymooners?"

He cocks his head in contemplation for a moment before nodding. "I suppose, though you'd think they would plan ahead. Viagra-poppers? Those guys are kind of on a clock."

"Excellent point. Spring breakers?"

"Possibly. Hookers."

"Oh, definitely. Pilots."

He creases his brow for a moment but nods, giving me this one. "Okay. Adulterers."

"Without a doubt. Agoraphiliacs?"

His frown deepens. "What are those?"

"People who get off on having sex in public places. No pun intended."

He guffaws. "How do you even _know_ that?"

"I'm not sure," I admit through a laugh. "Though it's a documented psychiatric diagnosis; we shouldn't make fun."

"Now I feel judgmental," he says, his voice grave. "I almost feel like I should buy some, even though I don't fall into any of those categories."

"Really? No little blue pills in your carry-on?" I challenge.

"Nary a one."

"No mistresses or hookers waiting in any of your stops along the way?"

"Nope. Well, not for me, anyway. European airports always seem like they're one step away from a high-class key party, if you ask me."

"You're not the adulterous type?"

"Never."

"And you're not an agoraphiliac."

He considers this for a moment, staring at the ceiling as I was only moments ago. "I don't think so," he says finally. I arch an eyebrow, waiting for elaboration, and his jaw dances as he chews on the inside of his lip. "Only one attempt. It didn't go well." I wait, but no more details are forthcoming. When he finally meets my eye, his brow lifts. "What?"

"Oh, come on. Now you have to tell the story."

"I don't think so."

"You can't just dangle it like that and leave me hanging!"

He snorts. "Dangle? Hanging? Those are words you're going to use in this conversation? Really?"

I roll my eyes. "Spill it, soldier boy."

Two well-muscled arms cross over his chest and he arches one eyebrow, staring down at me. "And what do I get in return?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Tit for tat. If I'm going to tell you mine, you have to tell me yours."

"Which one?" I ask, gratified by the way his mouth falls open slightly and his cheeks flush before his arms uncross and he points an accusing finger in my face. "You're an agora-whatever-it-is! _You_ should buy the rubbers!"

I've barely come down from hearing him say "panties," and now something about hearing him say the word "rubbers" draws a very physical response from my body. "Oh my God, I'm not buying airport condoms, and don't change the subject. You were about to tell me about your unsuccessful attempt at public sex."

"Okay, first of all, it was an attempt at sex in a public _place_. There's a subtle but very significant difference. Secondly, I absolutely was _not_ about to tell you anything of the sort."

"Oh, don't be a prude."

"Hey, I warned you."

I huff in righteous indignation. "Lame."

He chuckles, then sobers. "I have to say, Bella Swan, I'm impressed and not a little bit fascinated. You don't strike me as the exhibitionist type at all."

"As you yourself pointed out, captain, there's a difference between exhibitionism and sex in a public place."

"That's major, thank you very much, and I'll be the judge of that."

"Get real. I'm not telling you squat."

He has the gall to look affronted. "Why not?"

"Are you kidding? Mr. 'tit-for-tat'?"

"Okay. You go first and I promise I'll tell you my embarrassing story."

I narrow my eyes and he holds up his right hand, three fingers raised. "Scout's honor."

"Of course you were a Boy Scout," I mutter.

"Eagle Scout," he boasts, shit-eating grin firmly in place.

"Figures. Okay, Beaver Cleaver. Last week of college senior year, studying for a Media Law final, my study-buddy-slash-boyfriend and I got a little worked up – or maybe just delirious with exhaustion – in the stacks of the student library. We did it up against the shelves in the periodicals section."

"Nerd-sex," he says, nodding sagely.

"Bite me."

"Where else?"

"What?"

"You said 'which one.' Where else did you…" – he waggles his eyebrows – "publicize your love?"

"No way. Tit for tat."

"Come on. That was hardly what you'd call a detailed recounting of events. I deserve something more. I am, after all, about to embarrass myself rather spectacularly."

I cannot deny that I quite like what my little revelation has done to Edward's eyes, and I can't help wondering what further disclosure might do. Still, I remind myself to at least pretend to be debating. I don't last long. "I will list them with the understanding that you don't get to ask any follow-up questions or receive any further details. Deal?"

There is no hesitation, and his eyes dance. "Deal."

I take a deep breath as if I'm in a church confessional and begin to tick them off on my fingers. "College library, outdoor concert arena, newsroom, airport frequent-flier lounge, parking lot."

"Jesus," he breathes, and I can see invisible wheels turning. "I will do absolutely anything it takes for you to give me details on the airport story." His voice is slightly breathless, and it makes me want to do more than tell him.

"Not on your life, Cullen."

"Wait a minute." His brow creases. "We just spent five minutes debating what types of people buy condoms in an airport. You were holding out on me!"

"Hey," I defend. "I said I had sex in an airport; I never said anything about buying prophylactics in an airport gift shop. There's a world of difference, my friend."

He snorts. "That's not as far a leap as you'd like to think, Swan."

I shrug. "Agree to disagree. Your turn, Ace. Spill."

And suddenly he's blushing again. "This is going to make me sound like a complete tool," he says in preface. "I'd like to go on the record here and now as stating that every woman I've ever had the pleasure of sleeping with has had nothing but complimentary things to say about my… uh… prowess."

"Prowess?" I snort. "Really?"

"I'm just saying. This makes me sound… alarmingly inept. I just want the disclaimer out there that otherwise, all of my reviews have been nothing but positive."

"Duly noted."

"I was also twenty-one and drunk. That's another disclaimer."

"Also noted."

"Okay." He sighs in defeat. "It was getting close to the end of the spring semester my junior year of college, and a bunch of my friends decided to go on a camping trip to kick off the summer. My roommate and I and the girls we were dating went with a couple of other guys and their girlfriends, and it ultimately turned into a giant booze-fest with a larger campfire than was probably safe. We brought hot dogs, but by the time we got the fire going and found sticks to roast them on we were pretty hammered and we kept dropping them into the fire, so by the time all was said and done, we burned all the dogs and were drinking on empty stomachs. Anyway, my girlfriend at the time – Kate – and I had been going out for a while, but we were still in the early stage where fooling around pretty much anywhere seemed like a good idea. We were sitting by the fire and kissing and getting sort of amped up until she stood up and pulled me away from our friends and closer to the stream, which had a small footbridge going over it. She dragged me onto the bridge and jumped up on the railing and started unbuckling my pants and…" He trails off suddenly, his cheeks flaming. "Well, basically, she was perched on the railing and leaning back on her hands and I, uh, pushed a little too hard and her hands slipped and she fell backward over the railing and into the stream."

I have no control over the laughter that breaks free, until I clamp my hand over my mouth and gasp. "Wait. Was she okay?"

He smiles sheepishly. "She was fine. Pissed off, but fine. Her, uh, shorts were around her ankle before she fell and she lost them in the water, so she had to wear my boxers back to the campfire. That didn't really help." I resume laughing, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "She also had a splinter in her ass." I am clutching my sides, tears running down my face, and I collapse against the wall. "I know. I told you. I'm quite the Casanova."

He lets me laugh, smiling indulgently, and after a few more cackles, I wipe at the corners of my eyes and try to catch my breath. "Oh, I don't know," I gasp. "Sex on a bridge railing is pretty impressive, if you can ignore the plunging-over-the-edge part."

"Don't forget the ass-splinter part."

"Right, of course. The ass-splinter, too." I crack up again, and this time he joins me. I am still leaning against the wall for support, and he props himself up next to me, chortling softly, his shoulders shaking.

"We didn't last long after that."

"Shocking."

"Tell me that's not worth the airport lounge story."

It is, but I shake my head anyway. "A girl's got to keep an ace up her sleeve for next time," I argue, and almost instantly the smile on his lips dies as his face falls. I replay my comment and realize why: there isn't a next time. Despite the banter and the innuendo-laden conversation and the pancakes, Edward Cullen is a stranger in an airport. We're not sharing anything more than an unexpected layover before we fly in opposite directions; once the snow stops and the travel starts, I'll never see him again. The thought is physically painful.

"Listen, Bella." He turns to face me, shifting his weight in one fluid motion to the shoulder still resting against the wall, and his face is as serious as I've seen it since he was recounting his decision to join the Army. "If this were any other day, and if I weren't flying off to fiddle with bombs in the middle of the desert, I'd ask for your number."

I attempt to swallow against the lump that lodges itself firmly in my throat. "If you weren't flying off to fiddle with bombs in the middle of the desert, I'd give it to you." My voice is barely more than a whisper.

Green eyes are pulling me in, and it takes all of the self-control I possess not to touch him. He watches me intently, and after a minute I see his throat muscles bob with a swallow. "If you gave it to me, I'd call. The same day. I wouldn't even try to do the whole 'play-it-cool-give-it-a-few-days' thing."

"I've always hated that game," I breathe.

"I'd take you out for Italian. There's a great little mom-and-pop restaurant near the house I grew up in that has the best ravioli on the planet." My heart aches, then begins to race as his large hand cups my cheek. "It would be really hard for me to say goodnight without kissing you." His thumb runs along my jawline.

"I'm not averse to kissing on the first date," I confess, and his eyes blaze.

"If I'm misreading this, stop me now," he breathes, and I can't see the green of his eyes anymore because they are hidden behind the long lashes sweeping against his cheekbones as he gazes at my mouth. I stay silent in unspoken permission, and after a beat, his warm mouth covers mine. I can taste the remnants of strawberry on his lips, which are warm and inquisitive and insistent. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck as his other one joins it, and I bring my own hands to the back of his neck, his short hair sliding through my fingers. He angles his head to deepen the kiss, and I rise to my tiptoes as he pulls us upright, abandoning the support of the wall. I feel his mouth open against mine, and his tongue whispers a trace against my lower lip; as I open my mouth in response, a small whimper escapes me. He meets my tongue with his, and instantly I feel heat like a wild elevator climbing and plummeting through my body. His breath hitches into my mouth, and what was gentle suddenly becomes demanding, his mouth moving smoothly over mine, lips and tongues dancing together.

His hands move from the back of my head down to my lower back, and he bands his arms around me, groaning softly into the kiss as he pulls me flush against his body. I think I whimper in response, and he deepens the kiss further, his tongue exploring the warm cavern of my mouth. I lose track of time as we stand there, shamelessly making out in an airport terminal, and it isn't until he slows the pace of the kiss, his tongue receding to gently trace my lower lip before retreating altogether, placing a borderline chaste kiss to my mouth, that I regain my bearings.

My eyes are still closed when he rests his forehead against mine, and I will my body to calm, even as flashes of imagination unspool through my mind like a sepia-hued film reel: Edward's hips pressing down into mine, our fingers tangled together against white cotton bed sheets, the skin of his stomach sliding against my own.

"_Now_ will you tell me the airport sex story?" he breathes into the space between us, and I pull back to open my eyes and swat at his arm.

"Dream on, Cullen."

His green eyes dance, alight with something brand new. "Bella, believe me, there's a very good chance that airport sex will feature heavily in my dreams in the near future, but they will most assuredly _not_ be featuring you with some random dude."

I may as well be on my plane to Seattle, because suddenly it feels like there is nothing beneath me for 30,000 feet.

* * *

"When do you come back?" I ask, hyper-aware of his long arm stretched across the top of the seatback behind me. The travelers at the gate are beginning to stir, stuffing things back into bags and righting clothes in preparation to board the finally-arrived plane.

"April."

"Spring training," I murmur, leaning into him slightly and fighting to keep my tone light. "Maybe I should help you with your batting average."

"My batting average?" he repeats.

"You're 0-for-1. That's a .000 average. But if you were 1-for-2, you jump to .500. That's a Hall of Fame batting average."

A small frown mars his otherwise perfect face, his heavy brows drawing together. "When did we start talking baseball?"

"It's a metaphor, Edward." I'm uncomfortable and embarrassed, and those emotions generally manifest in unpleasant ways. Case in point: snottiness.

He scratches the skin above his eyebrow with his free hand while the fingertips of the other dance over the point of my shoulder. "Can we bypass the metaphors? It's almost six a.m."

I take in a lungful of air before turning to face him. "I was offering to have sex with you in a public place. But if you're too tired to consider it, what with it being almost six a.m.…" I trail off and risk a glance at Edward, who is looking like I just told him I'm going to do it with him right here and now – all traces of exhaustion are gone, and delight wars with arousal for dominance in those green eyes I've become so fond of over the past nine hours.

He licks his lips. "In that case, I'm going to need your phone number."

"Yes. You are." He holds his iPhone out to me, and I tap his Contacts list and add a new entry. "And your e-mail address, please." When I hand it back to him with my name and contact information stored, he taps the screen and holds up the phone between us. "Smile."

I block his phone with my hand. "What?"

"I need a picture to add to your contact info," he says.

"Not on your life. I look like hell."

He lowers the phone only enough to meet my eyes over it, his face serious. "You're beautiful." He raises the phone again. "Besides, I'm headed to the desert, where I'll be surrounded by profusely sweaty and generally unattractive men; really, a head shot is the least you can do." I roll my eyes, but his guilt trip works; I smile, albeit begrudgingly, and he grins. "Thank you."

I open my mouth to deliver yet another smart-ass remark, but I'm interrupted by the garbled hiss of the overhead address system being switched on.

"Okay, folks, I'd like to welcome you all – _finally_ – to United Airlines Flight 1584 to New York," comes a disembodied voice through the crackling static. "We're going to go ahead and begin our pre-boarding at this time, after which we'll take our family boarding, that's anyone traveling with children ages four and under. Passengers in Zone 1, please line up and we'll get going."

There is a smattering of applause from the assembled passengers; I wonder if I am the only person who will be sad to see Flight 1584 pull away from the gate. I suspect – I _hope_ – there's at least one other person who agrees with me.

Edward rises slowly from his seat and gracefully hoists his knapsack onto his shoulders as if it weighs nothing. I stand reflexively and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "That's me," he murmurs, tucking an errant lock of hair behind my ear. His fingertips ghost along my jaw before he retracts his hand and grips the shoulder strap of his bag.

I nod, feeling an undeniable surge of loss steamrolling through me, and I struggle to breathe. _Stop it. Don't be stupid. You've only just met him. _

"That's you," I echo and force a smile to my face.

"Hang on." He rummages around in a small zippered section of his bag, and when he withdraws his hand, it's clenched in a fist. He considers me for a moment before scratching the back of his neck, and for the first time since his initial bedroom comment faux pas, he is nervous. "Trade me," he says, and before I can ask for clarification, he opens his hand and holds out his "Edward" key chain.

I hesitate for less than a breath before I reach into my own bag and pull out my matching "Bella" one, handing it to him and plucking its twin from his palm. As I do, his hand closes around my fist for a beat before he lets go. The hand not holding the key chain bearing my name disappears into the neck of his sand-colored t-shirt and reappears clutching the chain of his dog tags. He deftly attaches my name to the chain carrying his own, and I swallow as a lump in my throat threatens to suffocate me. I know the key chain can't stay there, but the significance of the gesture knocks me in the ribs all the same.

He presses a piece of paper into my palm, but before I can unfold it, he wraps his large hand around mine, stilling me. "No obligation," he says. "Only if you want to." I open the scrap to see a complicated mailing address with very few lines that I understand, followed by an e-mail address.

"I want to," I breathe, and the smile that breaks across his face is nearly blinding. He opens his mouth to say something else, but we are interrupted once again by the gate attendant.

"I see we have a soldier on our flight today; ladies and gentlemen, I don't think anyone here would be against my allowing him to pre-board, would they?"

This time the applause is more than a smattering, and I see Edward's ears redden again. My chest aches and I tamp down on the panic; I thought we would have at least five more minutes, but it's now. He's leaving now. Suddenly, he pulls me into an embrace so tight I can't breathe; if my arms were that strong, if I could hold someone that tight, I'd never let him go.

"Come back," I whisper, and I don't have the wherewithal to be embarrassed by the note of pleading in my voice.

"I will," he promises, and pulls back to plant his lips softly but resolutely on mine. Every day for the rest of my life, I will wonder how kissing a virtual stranger goodbye could have felt like a hello. Breaking the kiss, he rests his forehead against mine and smiles with his eyes still closed as we breathe into the shared space between us. "So long, Bella Swan."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading; please leave me a note and share your thoughts. If you're here because you saw this story recommended somewhere, please let me know where; I'd love to thank whomever sent you my way! Thanks also to everyone who offered such positive feedback on my first story, "The Purple Banana Hammock" ... I'm still working on responding to reviews, and the feedback was beyond humbling. Thanks also to those who recommended it, particularly The Fictionators and the Lemonade Stand crew, as well as DollyReader, Rushed, and everyone who pimped it on Twitter and elsewhere... you guys are awesome._


	2. Chapter 2: Delays

**Departures**

**Summary: **"'Her bag looks heavy.' And so I offered you a seat. That was it. That moment."

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: **I'm not in the habit of owning people, but I'd own Edward Cullen if I could. Alas, that privilege belongs to one Stephenie Meyer. Lucky witch.

**Acknowledgement:** My beta, HollettLA, has my eternal thanks for her general awesomeness. She is the comma goddess, and she really hates it when people don't spell "cum" the right way. Just so you know.

Re: The reviews. Wow, you guys. Just… wow. Thank you. Thanks also to the super-stalkers: Nicffwhisperer, CallMePagliacci, and the rest of the "stalker army" for motivating me to keep going with these two. Or threatening me, as the case may be. ;)

_Note: When I initially wrote "Departures" I set it much farther back in time, which is why I had Edward headed for Iraq instead of Afghanistan. When I changed the date, I neglected to change Edward's destination in one part of Chapter One; I'd like to clarify that he is in Afghanistan, where as of January 2012 there is still a war going on. He is not in Iraq, from which American troops withdrew at the end of 2011. Also, I'm an idiot sometimes._

* * *

**Chapter Two: Delays**

"Fucking MOVE IT!" I growl at the bumper of the car idling in front of me – and, in reality, at the line of cars idling in front of _it._ A quick glance at the clock embedded in my dashboard reminds me that leaving the house without a considerable amount of buffer time was a stupid, stupid move. It's the day I've been awaiting for four months. The _moment_ I've been awaiting, and thanks to a pile-up on the 509, I'm going to miss it. Miss _him._ A handful of moments are all we're going to have together, and every second I sit in traffic is one less second I'll have with him. I'm two miles from the exit that would enable me to take back roads to SeaTac, and I haven't moved in twenty minutes. "Fuck," I hiss, slamming my palms against the steering wheel and letting my head fall back against my headrest. I can't believe this.

My phone chirps and my reaction is instinctive; I hit the icon for my e-mail app, but the new message is from my editor, Lou. I drop my phone back onto the passenger seat in irritation, even as my logical brain reminds my emotional one that Edward is still airborne and therefore wouldn't be sending me e-mails. I am struck suddenly by the desire to read his now-familiar words, and after a beat in which I once again consider my complete lack of progress, I retrieve my phone and navigate back to my inbox. As I tap through to the folder I created solely for his messages, memories of the past four months flip through my mind like flashcards.

* * *

_From: Edward Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Wednesday, January 4, 2012 10:32 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Nice to meet you_

_Bella,_

_As a kid, and as a teenager, and even as an adult, I've always been a big picture kind of guy. I always worried about the future, focused on it to the point that I often missed out on the present. My mom has always said to me, "Edward, life is made up of moments. You never know when one will change your life." I never really put much stock in that until now._

_Your bag looked heavy. I saw you standing in the gate area, looking around for a seat, and you rolled your neck like your shoulders were hurting and I thought, "Her bag looks heavy." And so I offered you a seat. That was it. That moment._

_As it turns out, my mother was right._

_It was really nice meeting you. I hope when you get this, you're home safe in Seattle. Is it weird to be thinking about someone I only just met so much that I can't wait until I've deplaned to e-mail her? Probably. But I like to think that my mother would be proud._

_Edward_

I reread his e-mail six times in the cab on the way from SeaTac to my apartment, and the rush that coursed through me was equal parts painful and thrilling. I wished I could call him up in that moment and tell him that I knew exactly what he meant because I was missing him more than logic suggested was probably reasonable, but it occurred to me that while I gave him my number, I neglected to take his. I read his words for the seventh time as the cab rolled slowly along the street leading to my home.

_That was it. That moment._

"Twenty-two fifty," the cabbie half-yelled through the cracked plastic partition, jarring me from my fixation, and I pulled the bills from my wallet before sliding out of the cab and dragging my small wheeled suitcase out behind me.

"Bella?" Angela's voice floated toward me from the kitchen as I stepped inside the front door, and I dumped my backpack on the floor as I bent to untie my shoelaces.

"Yeah, it's me." I kicked off my sneakers as she appeared in the doorway.

"Hey, I could have picked you up." Her hands cradled a coffee mug, and my mouth watered even as my mind flashed to a plate of pancakes drenched in maple syrup.

"Don't worry about it; I wasn't even sure what time I'd end up getting in." Following her to the kitchen, I grunted my gratitude as she retrieved a second mug from the cupboard and poured me a cup from the coffee maker, sliding it across the table and settling in the chair across from me.

"Rough trip?"

I shrugged. "Bad snowstorm in Chicago. Airport was a mess."

She made a noise of sympathy as she closed the catalog she was perusing and slid it to one side. "How was the bachelorette party?"

I nodded as I blew on my steaming coffee. "It was good. I mean…you know. It's Rose. I love her to death, but her friends drive me crazy."

An epic understatement. While on paper Rosalie Hale is the modern-day equivalent of a debutante, she has a real depth to her that makes her not only a great friend but a good time as well. She was raised in high society Chicago, a world obsessed with wealth and image, and when she was accepted to college at Stanford, she saw it as much as a good academic opportunity as a chance to get away from the pressures of being one of The Chicago Hales. We met our freshman year and became fast friends, yet despite the fact that Rose is more comfortable with a slice of pizza in one hand, a beer in the other, and both feet up on the coffee table, she's never been able to completely shake her past. Even her fiancé, Royce King, is a blue blood; his father works at the same investment firm as Rosalie's father, and while she seems to adore him, I sometimes suspect that that particular choice wasn't entirely her own. As a result, I'm the only bridesmaid in her wedding whose face wouldn't be found in the Chicago High Society Who's Who flashcard game, knowledge that was not lost on the other seven – yes, _seven_ – lovely ladies who will be standing up next to Rosalie come June.

Angela moaned in sympathy and I waved a hand in the space between us.

"It's not a big deal. I just felt badly for Rose. I think she genuinely wanted me to feel like I fit in, and so she spent a lot of time trying to make sure I was included in the conversation, an alarming amount of which focused on handbags that cost more than my car and shoe designers I've never heard of. I was definitely the black sheep."

"Actually, you were the black swan," she snorted, taking another sip as I rolled my eyes. "But yeah. That sucks. Although at least you got to spend New Year's Eve in Times Square! Was it as nuts as it looks on TV?"

I spent thirty minutes filling Angela in on the relative chaos that was New York City on what was arguably its biggest night of the year before begging off to take a shower. It wasn't until I was rinsing my mug in the sink that one of her questions brought me up short.

"Can I ask why you're wearing an Army t-shirt?"

I glanced down and froze. Honestly, until that moment I had forgotten.

"I, um, spilled something on my blouse."

But I hesitated before answering, and Angela knew me too well to let it slide. "Okay. But where'd you get the shirt?" I turned to face her, leaning against the edge of the counter and chewing my lip as my hands found the hem of the shirt and bunched it together. Her eyes narrowed behind the black frames of her glasses. "Did you hook up?" A pleased grin split her face. "Tell me you hooked up. I've been telling you that you need to get laid for _months_—_"_

"I did _not_ hook up," I interrupted, even as the memory of Edward's mouth on mine danced through my mind. "A guy lent it to me."

"What guy?"

"Just…a guy. At the airport."

At this, Angela's face pulled into a frown, and I could see she was expecting a glorious tale of a New Year's Eve love connection in midtown Manhattan. "A guy at the airport," she repeated.

"A soldier," I clarified, as I slowly warmed to the idea of coming clean. That…whatever-it-was…with Edward knocked me for a bit of a loop, and Angela was my best friend. "I met a soldier at the airport in Chicago. He was headed to New York for a flight to Afghanistan and his flight was delayed too, so we just…hung out."

Angela's skeptical silence was all the convincing I needed to spell out the story for her, telling her about the Pearl Jam and the pancakes and the smoothies and the banter. When I got to the part about the kiss, her eyebrows were near her hairline, and by the time I finished she looked stunned.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"I don't even know what to say," she said carefully, flattening her palms against the sides of her mug. "I mean it's—"

"I know. It's stupid."

Her eyebrows pinched together in a frown. "What? It's not stupid! It's just… it's really sweet. And sad. And… well, a little random."

"Very random," I agreed. That was precisely why Angela had been my best friend for years: she could put words to the chaos jumbling around inside my head even better than I could. Sweet and sad and random: such was my recent interaction with Edward Cullen. And not a little bit hot.

"And he's back in Afghanistan?" she clarified, and I glanced involuntarily at the clock above the stove, wondering where he was in his travels at that moment.

"Well, on his way back. He was in Chicago for his brother's wedding."

"And you gave him your number?" I nodded. "Do you think he'll call?" I realized I neglected to mention the e-mail, and once I did, her eyebrows began their climb once again. "He e-mailed you _already?_"

I nodded, feeling stupidly validated. When did I regress to being a high school girl? "I suppose this is his version of not playing it cool," I admitted, and was treated to a sudden flash of his earlier words.

"_I'd call. The same day. I wouldn't even try to do the whole 'play-it-cool-give-it-a-few-days' thing."_

"Wow, Bella."

"What?"

"You should see your face right now."

I could only imagine what it looked like, and an embarrassed flush worked its way up my neck and into my face as I pushed away from the counter. "Okay, seriously, I'm going to shower now."

"I expect to be kept abreast of the situation!" she called as I retreated, and my mind immediately jumped to Edward and all the fun ways he could pick apart her use of the word "abreast."

Shit. I was so screwed.

Twenty minutes later I was staring at the bathroom floor, where a long-sleeved gray t-shirt lay discarded in a crumpled heap on the black and white checkered tile. Securing the towel in a knot at my chest, I bent, retrieving the garment from the floor; after a brief hesitation, I lifted it to my face and breathed in. The detergent smell was gone and I felt ridiculous. There was no implication in his e-mail of what he thought this was… in fact, his e-mail could just as easily have been read as a good-bye.

I frowned at my reflection for a beat before padding down the hallway to my bedroom. Dropping the t-shirt on my bed I rummaged around in my closet for a pair of jeans and in my dresser for a top; once dressed, I unwrapped another towel from my hair and scraped the damp strands back into a messy knot. Disregarding the still-full suitcase that sat inside my open bedroom door waiting to be unpacked, I dragged my desk chair out and plopped into it, firing up my laptop. After an eighth reread of his message, I opened up a new window.

_From: Bella Swan _

_To: Edward Cullen _

_Sent: Wednesday, January 4, 2012 12:49 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Nice to meet you_

_Edward,_

"_Nice to meet you" was a very innocuous subject line for an e-mail that was anything but. I know I've said it already, but I'm convinced I would really, really like your family. Your mom sounds like a pretty smart woman. _

_I'm wondering where you are right now. It's almost 1 p.m. my time, which means it's nearly 4 p.m. in New York, and I wonder if you're still there or if you're over an ocean somewhere. I know what you meant in your message; I'm thinking about you, too. It doesn't really make sense, but it's there all the same._

_I admit that I'm a little blown away by your words. In a good way. You shared with me some wisdom from your mother, so allow me to impart one of my father's gems: "Never speak to strange men." I can't tell you how glad I am that I don't listen to my dad as well as you listen to your mom. I wouldn't trade anything for that moment you offered me a seat, or for any of the ones between then and when you kissed me goodbye. If life is made up of moments, I think some of my favorite ones so far have been with you._

_Bella_

"Takeout Chinese?" Angela suggested as she appeared in my open doorway, and I wrinkled my nose.

"Pizza?" I countered, and she hitched a shoulder in a half-shrug.

"Ben and I had pizza last night. Sushi?"

My mouth watered as my eyes widened. "Oh my God, I would maim someone for a spicy California roll right now."

"Done," she said, turning; I followed her down the stairs and she grabbed her coat from the rack beside the front door and tossed mine to me. I donned it quickly and pulled on a a hat and gloves as we flipped the lights and stepped outside. "Sakura or Tokyo Tavern?"

"Sakura," I voted as we descended the front porch stairs and she nodded her agreement as we hugged ourselves against the frigid winter chill. We slipped into Angela's beat-up vintage Beetle, and I blew into my hands in a futile attempt to warm them. Neither Angela's car nor my equally vintage truck had decent heat, so driving around in winter was akin to cruising in a meat truck. By the time we reached the restaurant, my teeth were chattering, and once we were seated and had ordered edamame and tempura appetizers, we both slurped our miso soups in a desperate attempt to warm up.

"So how's Ben?"

"Fine, fine." Angela dismissed my inquiry with a wave of her white plastic soup spoon. Angela and Ben got together in college, and virtually the only reason they weren't living together already was that her father was a minister and Ben valued his testicles. He had been itching to propose for upwards of two years but Angela said she wanted to finish her residency first. As with everything else, thoughts of pre-med and soon-to-be doctors made me think of Edward. As if she plucked the thought from my brain, Angela continued. "I want to hear more about Army-boy."

I rolled my eyes as I swallowed a cube of tofu. "There's nothing more to tell."

"Did you e-mail him back?" I flushed and Angela smirked from behind her spoon. "Spill."

I shrugged. "I e-mailed him back. That's it."

It was Angela's turn to roll her eyes. "What did you _say_?"

"I told him I liked meeting him, too. That I hoped his travel was going well." I was alarmed to realize that there was virtually nothing else from my e-mail that I was willing to share, and thankfully Angela didn't press the issue.

"He sounds really sweet, Bella. Is he cute?"

"Cute is an understatement."

"Excellent," she beamed and was opening her mouth to continue when a familiar voice floated from somewhere behind me.

"Bella?" I turned to see Jacob Black standing inside the doorway, shrugging out of a black wool peacoat. "Hey!" He approached the table and grinned down at me as I returned the smile.

"Hey, Jake."

"You're back! Hey, Angela." Angela nodded politely and Jake continued. "How was your trip?"

"It was good, thanks. A little crazy, travel-wise, but I had a good time." I glanced behind him but could see no one waiting for him. "Are you here for dinner?"

"Yeah, I was just gonna grab a roll at the sushi bar before my shift."

"Well, you're welcome to join us if you want," I offered. "We haven't even ordered yet."

"Are you sure?" he asked, glancing at Angela who in turn nodded.

Once he settled, ordered a soda, and was helping himself to the shrimp tempura in the middle of the table, Jake's familiar grin slid across his face. "You going to let me take you out on a date yet?"

I rolled my eyes. "The answer's the same as it has been since we were fourteen, Jake. But points for persistence."

He shrugged, entirely unfazed. "I'll wear you down yet, Swan."

"Unlikely."

Angela smiled politely as she squeezed a soybean out of its pod. She'd never really warmed to Jake, which I felt guilty about; her resistance was probably due in large part to the fact that she was the person to whom I bitched about him the most. While we'd been friends since we learned to walk thanks to our fathers' lifelong friendship, Jacob always pressed for more, and I wasn't kidding when I said I'd been fighting him off since we were teenagers. Sometimes, like tonight, he was able to laugh off my refusals, while other times he attempted to lay guilt trips on me, implying that I led him on and sent him mixed messages. Those were the times that I vented to Angela, and as such she had never been his biggest fan.

"Are you going home anytime soon?"

Jake nodded as he swigged his Coke. "Yeah, I told Dad I'd go ice fishing with him and Charlie next weekend, since I have Monday off. Hey, you should come." At my wrinkled nose, he laughed. "Not fishing. I just mean come back to Forks with me."

I shook my head. "As much as I'd love to twiddle my thumbs in my childhood bedroom while you three idiots freeze your asses off, I have work to catch up on."

He shrugged again as the waitress appeared to take our sushi order and the conversation moved on.

An hour later the muffled ring of my cell phone emanated from the zippered pocket of my parka as I was turning the key in the lock of our front door, and I only just managed to dig it out and answer it before it went to voicemail.

"Hello?"

"Bella?" Rosalie's voice sounded relieved. "Hey, sorry. Did I drag you away from somewhere?"

"No, no," I assured her, shrugging out of my coat and attempting to kick off my boots. "I was just trying to unlock my door. How are you?"

"I'm good. I just wanted to check that you made it home okay; that was a bitch of a snowstorm, and they had stories all over the news about the delays at O'Hare. I'm so sorry I ditched you there."

"No worries; it was a little hairy but I'm home. Don't worry about it. Have you recovered from your night of debauchery yet?" I was half-kidding; Rose didn't drink much anymore since her mother went to rehab a few years earlier. Even at her own bachelorette party she switched to water after two martinis.

"Just about," she sighed. "It was so good to see you; thank you so much for making the trip."

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't have missed it!" Finally shoeless, I padded to the kitchen and turned on the kettle to make tea. "I'm sorry we didn't have more time to catch up and talk about wedding plans."

"Oh, don't worry, the wedding planner assures me everything will go off without a hitch. Listen, Bella—" Rose's words were cut off by a loud crash that sounded like shattering glass or china. "_Shit._"

"Rose? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Um. Yeah, Bella. Look, I have to go. I, um, broke a dish. I have to go."

Before I could respond, Rose disconnected the call and I was left frowning at my phone as the kettle began to hiss. "That was weird," I muttered to myself, but before I could ponder it too deeply I was distracted by the chirp that alerted me to an incoming e-mail.

_From: Edward Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Wednesday, January 4, 2012 2:32 p.m. PST_

_Subject: You're hot._

_Is that a better subject line? It's no less true than the other one, though slightly more direct and significantly less tactful. Right now I'm at another airport gate, this time at Heathrow in London. It has to be said, it pales in comparison to the gate at O'Hare; in fact, I think I'll be partial to the departures terminal at O'Hare Airport for the rest of my life. I'm headed to Germany from here, then to the desert. I may not have access to e-mail during that in-between, but I should be back on base in Afghanistan by Saturday, so I'll certainly be in touch. _

…_Wait, is that weird? That I expect you to expect to hear from me? I feel like I'm getting ahead of myself, but then I replay yesterday or reread the end of your e-mail and I feel like you'd be okay with that. Correct me if I'm wrong. And while we're on the subject, the last line of your e-mail might be the most perfect thing I've ever read. I couldn't possibly agree more. I've never met someone like you, Bella Swan. You're the most familiar stranger I've ever met, and I feel like I could talk to you until I run out of breath. I suppose for now we'll have to settle for this. (Unless, of course, you feel the urge to send me naked pictures of yourself, which I will also happily accept.)_

_Edward_

"Why are you grinning at your phone?" Angela asked, reaching around me to retrieve two mugs from the cupboard and unearthing a pair of tea bags from a nearby drawer.

"What?" I attempted to school my features to no avail, and Angela's shrewd eyes widened.

"_Another_ e-mail?" I shrugged and she grinned. "Wow. Boy's got it bad. You sure all you did was kiss him?"

I flushed. "It doesn't make sense, I know."

"When does it?" she said simply, and set about making our tea. Once I had my steaming mug in hand, I shuffled upstairs to unpack. By the time my clothes were back in their drawers and on their hangers and my small collection of laundry had been relocated from the plastic bag to the hamper in my closet, I had mentally composed no fewer than five responses to Edward's e-mail. Yet again I found myself wondering where he was at that moment, if he was on another plane, or if he was sitting in an airport terminal, listening to songs on his beat-up iPod. I tried valiantly not to give any consideration to the idle thought that he might be chatting with some English or German girl and instead gave in to the temptation to open my laptop.

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Wednesday, January 4, 2012 9:22 p.m. PST_

_Subject: I don't know about hot, but thanks to your shirt, I'm at least warm._

_Edward,_

_Somehow, it doesn't feel like settling, though, given a choice, I'd rather have you in the same ZIP code, which would make the necessity of naked pictures a moot point. (Which is an indirect way of saying, "Not on your life." Did you miss the whole Anthony Weiner scandal? People will never learn.)_

_So you're in London… I've always wanted to go there. Big red buses and red mailboxes and red phone booths… I wonder what their fascination is with the color red? Anyway, I've always wanted to go. There's a pub-style restaurant near my apartment that serves fish and chips, and I've wondered for years if it's as good as the real thing. To be honest, I don't know much about Germany, and I know even less about your ultimate destination. I wish I knew more, so that I could picture you there. I was just about to write, "Is that weird?" but that seems to be a recurring concern with us, so I'm just going to operate under the assumption that we're suspending weirdness and that if something is too odd to let slide, you'll let me know. I suspect there's nothing about this that isn't somewhat strange, stranger. So how is it that it feels so normal?_

_Safe travels._

_Bella_

* * *

_From: Edward Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Thursday, January 5, 2012 6:54 p.m. PST_

_Subject: I'm jealous of a t-shirt._

_Bella,_

_While I confess to a certain degree of disappointment on the naked pictures front, you should know that it's an open invitation, so if you change your mind you can send them along anytime. Meanwhile, thanks for your e-mail. And yes, we're suspending weirdness. Indefinitely. Hit me with whatever you've got._

_London is a great city; I'd love to go there with you and feed you all the fish and chips you can eat, then take you to a pub and get a couple of pints in you…for some reason I'm intrigued by the idea of seeing you slightly buzzed. I bet you're hilarious. And probably adorable to boot. _

_And with that idle thought comes the realization of just how much there is about you that I don't know. Besides your job, and your penchant for pancakes and sex in public places, I know very little about you. Tell me._

_Edward_

_. . ._

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Friday, January 6, 2012 11:12 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: I'm jealous of a t-shirt._

_Edward,_

_That's a very open-ended request; what, specifically, do you want to know? I'm a Virgo, I wear a size seven-and-a-half shoe, and I think Woody Allen movies, on the whole, are wildly overrated._

_Is that what you're looking for?_

_In regard to London, you just tell me when to book the ticket. I'd love to eat fish and chips with you and embarrass myself on too many pints. I'm a Guinness girl, and when I get silly, I have a tendency to hold inane conversations with myself or with inanimate objects; most recently my roommate found me debating whether I used a verb as an adjective while standing in front of my open refrigerator. _

_And we're still at "no" on the naked pictures front. Sorry to disappoint. I'm much more comfortable on the other side of the lens anyway. Though I should extend the offer to you; I'm always looking for new snapshots for my computer wallpaper._

_What about you? While I know slightly more about you, it doesn't seem like nearly enough. Tell _me_._

_Bella_

* * *

"Swan? That you?" came a familiar gruff voice from inside the depths of the editor's office.

"Yeah. Hey, Lou," I called back, dumping my backpack on my desk chair. One of the few downsides to being a photographer was carting around cumbersome camera equipment, and my backpack – which held not only a DSLR body and numerous lenses and flash attachments but my laptop as well – was a behemoth that would make the carry-on Edward was so concerned about look like a wristlet.

"Got a minute?" he asked, his hulking frame appearing around the edge of his door with reading glasses somehow hovering at his forehead. If this were the era of Jimmy Olsen and Clark Kent, Lou Rourke, editor-in-chief of the _Seattle Chronicle_, would be sitting behind a paper-cluttered desk enveloped in a cloud of smoke, chomping on the end of a cigar and calling me "doll-face." Thanks to HR and OSHA I'm saved the assault on my femininity and my respiratory system, though the organization of his desk still left much to be desired. That said, Lou's gruff exterior always reminded me a little bit of Charlie, and as such I didn't find him nearly as off-putting as some of the other female members of the staff did.

"You bet," I replied, flicking the power switch on my iMac before crossing the small newsroom to Lou's glass-walled office. Sinking into the visitor's chair across from his desk after relocating a stack of papers and manila folders, I offered him a grin. "Happy New Year."

Lou rolled his eyes; if there was a Scrooge to be found in Seattle, I would swear I worked for him. "How was your trip?" he asked begrudgingly, and I beamed at his attempt at cordiality. I may have taken Lou and his lack of social skills on as a sort of pet project. Again, I blamed Charlie.

"Great, thanks. Got stuck in Chicago for a bit, but apart from that it was good." Even as the words fell effortlessly enough from my lips, I realized the lie within them: the delay in Chicago turned out to be the best part of my cross-country trek. But that wasn't something Lou wanted to know any more than I wanted to tell him.

"What are you doing here on a Saturday?" he asked.

I shrugged as I shifted slightly in the visitor's chair, the cracked leather upholstery catching my wool pants. "News never sleeps?" I guessed.

"Swan, don't be cutesy. You're too goddamn smart to play cutesy. Cutesy is reserved for what's-her-name in _His Girl Friday_, and frankly even she was pushing her luck."

"Rosalind Russell?"

"Whatever," he said, clearly out of small-talk juice. He slid his glasses back down to the bridge of his nose and glanced at a loose square of paper he plucked from the top of his desk. "We got a call back from the family of that vet, and they're willing to let you go and spend a few days with him. You can tail him to his rehab, his doctor's appointments, and you're welcome at his home – which is actually his parents' home – and at the welcome back party they're having for him at the weekend."

I nodded obediently, swiping a pen off Lou's desk. "Got a number?" He recited the phone number for me, and I jotted it dutifully on a Post-it I snagged from near the corner of his disaster of a desk. "Who's writing it?" I asked, capping the pen.

Lou dropped the scrap of paper and leaned back in his chair as he considered me, his elbows finding the armrests and fingers tented in front of him. "I'm thinking photo essay," he said slowly, squinting at me. "The mother said the kid's sort of quiet, not really a big talker, and to be honest, she seemed the same way. Not sure we'd get much out of any of them by way of quotes, and staff's a little thin; can't really spare someone to keep you company for a whole week." He leaned forward again. "And anyway, I think this kind of thing works nicely as a photo spread. So it's all yours." I could feel my eyebrows sliding up my forehead as I stared back at him. This would be my first photo essay, and knowing the page spread Lou had in mind for the story I knew without him telling me that it was a big assignment. He shifted his considerable body slightly in his chair before making a show of sifting through the sea of papers on his blotter. "You've been doing good work here; I want you to know that. I'm not particularly forthcoming with the praise, but you're doing good work. Much better than the last three J-School idiots we got from Western Washington."

"Uh, thanks?"

He nodded. "Well?"

"Well what?" I asked, my mind attempting to assimilate his credit and my new assignment.

"Do. You. Want. The. Assignment. Or. Not?" he enunciated slowly, as if I were simple.

"Seriously?"

"Swan," he breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "If you're going to talk like a fourteen-year-old girl, I'll call Newton in here. And you _know_ how it would pain me to give this to Newton."

"No!" I all but cried. "I mean, no. No, don't do that. Don't give it to Newton. I'll do it. I'm your girl."

"Fantastic," he replied without inflection.

"Thanks, Lou. Honestly, this is… I won't let you down, Skip."

"Swan, for the last time, don't call me Skip. And what did I say about cutesy?"

"Sorry," I said, forcing my expression back to something in the neighborhood of neutral. "But honestly, boss. Thanks."

"Don't fuck it up," he muttered, and I couldn't resist the urge to pick at him just once more.

"Good advice, Skip."

He rolled his eyes, gesturing with his ink-stained hand toward the door. "Get the hell out of my office." But his lips twitched, and I doffed my imaginary news cap before slipping from his office and returning to my desk. Relocating my backpack from my chair to the floor, I keyed my username and password in to my archaic computer to log into the similarly outdated network. Lou wasn't the only thing about the _Chronicle_ that belonged in a bygone era; sometimes I was surprised that we weren't still clacking away at typewriters. When I was finally up and running, I logged into my e-mail, scanning the new messages in my inbox quickly and grinning when I spotted Edward's name in the sender column.

_From: Edward Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Friday, January 7, 2012 7:28 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: I'm jealous of a t-shirt._

_Bella,_

_I want to know everything, including your shoe size and your taste in movies, but we can start small. Where did you grow up? What are your parents like? Where did you go to college? Fill me in on the Bella Swan back story._

_Sorry so short; heading out early in the morning._

_Edward_

After a quick glance toward Lou's office and a scan of the nearly empty newsroom, I hit "reply."

_From: Bella Swan _

_To: Edward Cullen _

_Sent: Saturday, January 7, 2012 9:02 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Bella 101_

_Edward,_

_I grew up in a small town in Washington State called Forks. And spare me the jokes and the innuendo; I've heard them all. My father, as I mentioned, was the chief of police. My mom was a free-spirited hippie who left when I was six. We have a tenuous relationship that consists mostly of birthday and Christmas cards and the odd lunch when her seemingly aimless wandering brings her to Seattle. (And reading back over that, I realize that I sound somewhat bitter. I'm really not. I love my mother, though I don't think I've really seen her as my mother – at least, not in the traditional PTA-carpool-baking-brownies sense – since I was in kindergarten.) My dad was a great parent, if a little overprotective, which I'm sure is a combination of his profession and the fact that he was raising a daughter by himself. I was a pretty quiet kid, got decent grades, spent most of my free time with my nose buried in books. I went to Western Washington University and got an internship at the Seattle Chronicle my senior year, which led to my current job. All in all, pretty boring._

_Now you: what else don't I know about Edward Cullen?_

_Bella_

For the next two hours I lost myself in Photoshop, sharpening images and adjusting levels to make them page-ready; Lord knows if I left such a task to the photo editor, my subjects' skin would wind up with a decidedly orange hue and the grass in the shots would look like radioactive slime. I loved Lenny, but his "expertise" in photo editing went by the wayside with darkrooms and stop bath solution. Before lunch, I met with one of the page designers who was also putting in weekend hours to see what she needed in the way of photos for a spread on New Year's resolutions, and when I was back at my desk and debating what I was going to eat, my inbox dinged again. I glanced up, surprised to see Edward's name.

_From: Edward Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Saturday, January 7, 2012 12:03 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Bella 101_

_Bella,_

_Not at all boring. It fits you, actually. You know how you meet people and you hear their stories and you think, "Wow, not at all what I would have pictured for this person"? Well, your story fits you somehow. Though I should point out at this juncture that while you did mention your father was a cop, you neglected to inform me that he was the chief of police. Should I be worried?_

_Edward_

_. . ._

_From: Bella Swan _

_To: Edward Cullen _

_Sent: Saturday, January 7, 2012 12:06 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Bella 101_

_Edward,_

_The only instance in which you should be worried is if you have dishonorable intentions. The last boy my father encountered who had overtly dishonorable intentions – and made those intentions known by groping me in the front seat of his car in the driveway on prom night – found himself in the holding cell at the Forks police station, wearing an ill-fitting tuxedo and a wilting boutonniere and waiting for his father to come and bail him out. _

_Do you have dishonorable intentions, Edward?_

_Bella_

_P.S. – Weren't you heading out early? _

After I clicked send, I spied the Post-it on which I had scribbled the name and phone number of the Army veteran who agreed to be the subject of my recently assigned photo essay. I chewed on my lip momentarily as I considered the digits. One of my undeniable flaws as a child of the new millennium is my complete and utter distaste for phone conversation. Unless talking to someone I know very well – and that list is essentially limited to Angela, Rosalie, and my father – I always hated talking on the phone. My complete aversion to it was one of the reasons I opted for photojournalism in lieu of writing; the idea of cold-calling strangers and asking probing questions made me uneasy in a way I could never quite articulate. Hovering on the outskirts and snapping photos unnoticed was always much more my style.

I flicked the pad of my index finger against the sticky strip on the back of the small yellow square of paper as my mind wandered to my neon-colored Post-it strips. Idly, I wondered if they were still dotting an illuminated map somewhere in the terminal at O'Hare or if they'd been swept into the wastebasket of a janitor's cart. Just as I reached for the handset of my desk phone, a small ping sounded to alert me to a new e-mail and I jumped at the temporary reprieve from professional responsibility.

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Saturday, January 7, 2012 12:15 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Time difference_

_Bella,_

_Completely dishonorable. _

_And it has to be said, I'm incredibly jealous of this poorly-dressed schmuck with the wilting boutonniere. _

_Edward_

_P.S. – The time difference is more than twelve hours (twelve and a half, technically). When it's morning for me, it's evening for you._

_. . ._

_From: Bella Swan _

_To: Edward Cullen _

_Sent: Saturday, January 7, 2012 12:22 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Time difference_

_Edward,_

_Terrific. I promise not to tell my dad._

_And don't worry; the "poorly-dressed schmuck" didn't make it much farther than second base._

_It's still your turn… or are you avoiding the question?_

_Bella_

_P.S. – Like I said, not much of a world traveler. In that case, you should get some sleep._

_. . ._

_From: Edward Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Saturday, January 7, 2012 12:28 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Edward 101_

_Bella,_

_Please don't. I'd fear for the very parts of me that would make my dishonorable intentions so very enjoyable._

_And I'm still jealous. Second base sounds to me rather like paradise right now._

_Not avoiding at all; I'm just slightly fixated on second base. Which will be the basis for my next question. First things first, though: I grew up in Chicago. You know about my parents and my two brothers: Emmett is four years older than I am, Jasper's two years older. The personalities I described for you have pretty much been there since we were kids, with Emmett being the big, burly jock-type and Jasper being the free-spirited, independent thinking type. I guess I was the quietest of the three; I spent a lot of my time watching. Watching them, watching my parents, watching my peers. Maybe trying to figure out what my role was? I don't really know; that's probably a question for a shrink. I think, though, I was just quietly content as a kid. I had a happy family life, I felt safe and loved, I did well in school… I didn't really have anything to complain about. Far more boring than your story, wouldn't you say?_

_Back to my question about second base. Tell me about your back story in that area… any ex-boyfriends I'm going to need to discourage upon my return?_

_Edward_

I grinned at my screen and didn't even hesitate before opening another e-mail window, grateful that with the exception of Lou and the photo editor, the newspaper offices were deserted. The smile on my face could in no way be explained away by photos of the ribbon-cutting ceremony at a local bank.

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen _

_Sent: Saturday, January 7, 2012 12:39 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Edward 101_

_Edward,_

_Not at all boring. Like you said, your story fits you. I like it. _

_As for the ex-boyfriends, following the awkward pawings of the prom night fumbler, things were pretty quiet for a while. I had my first serious boyfriend during college – my first and my "first" – and he was a year older than me. We broke up when he graduated and left for grad school on the East Coast. I've dated a little bit here and there since, with some pairings more successful than others, but nothing overly tragic or overly amazing. Which, I suppose, is why I'm still single._

_Et tu?_

_Bella_

_. . ._

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Saturday, January 7, 2012 12:43 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Single, huh?_

_Bella,_

_I've always been sort of a serial monogamist. I had a girlfriend for three years in high school; we started dating during my sophomore year and were together until we graduated. She was my first everything: first love, first kiss, first-first. We actually enrolled at Dartmouth together – oh, young love – but it didn't work out. As you put it, nothing overly tragic: we grew up and grew in different directions, and that was that. _

_I had another girlfriend during my sophomore year in college, but she cheated on me after about a year together and that ended. You remember Kate – she of the ass-splinter – my junior year. Another girlfriend my senior year and we were together until I enlisted; she thought we were going to get married when we graduated, and I couldn't see anything beyond joining the Army, so that was the end of that._

_Beyond those, I had a one-night stand after my second tour of duty. It wasn't my style, and I felt stupid and sort of like an asshole afterward. Like I said, serial monogamist._

_And in regard to your last e-mail… ARE you still single? I thought I'd been working on changing that._

_Edward_

I was still smiling at my screen when I heard a voice floating from the space behind it; craning my neck, I spied Jacob standing in the space near my desk, decked out in his police blues.

"Hey," he said with an easy grin. "Lunch?"

"What? Did we have plans?"

"Nope," he shrugged. "But I was in the area. Thought I could tempt you with the offer of burritos."

"How did you know I'd be here?" I asked, even as I knew the answer.

"You were out of town for a week," he replied with a knowing quirk of his brow. "Figured your work ethic wouldn't let you take the weekend. Plus, I saw your car at the curb."

"You know me too well," I laughed, logging out of the system and stashing my camera equipment beneath my desk before grabbing my coat off the back of my chair. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"B and E over on Wallingford," he said, holding the door open for me. "And, of course, the all-consuming desire to see your pretty face."

I rolled my eyes. "Jake, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were a sleaze."

He laughed. "I'll be whatever you want me to be, Bells," he replied, the weight of his words compounded by the heavy arm he slung around my shoulders. "If sleazy does it for you, call me Captain Slimeball."

"Okay, Captain, easy on the charm." I ducked out from beneath his arm but threw him a smile. Buttoning my coat as we stepped onto the sidewalk, I noted his patrol car parked behind my own wheels.

"We'll have to take mine," he said with an apologetic gesture toward his car. "In case I get a call."

"You got it." Once he popped the locks, I slid into the passenger seat, amazed as always at the buttons and various gadgets lining his dashboard. "As long as you don't stick me in the back like some perp, I'm fine with riding in the squad car."

He rolled his eyes at my use of the word "perp." "You've been watching _Law & Order_ reruns again, haven't you?"

I shrugged in tacit admission. "_SVU_. I like Stabler."

He shook his head as he put his blinker on and pulled away from the curb. "So that's your type, huh? Balding and in possession of anger management issues?"

I looked out the window as storefronts slid by. "Not really," I replied as my mind drifted once again to Edward.

"Hey," he murmured after a moment when I'd been silent a beat too long. "You okay?"

"What? Yeah. Great. Just debating whether I'm going for the junior burrito or the real deal."

He rolled his eyes again. "Like that's even a debate," he snorted, and I grinned.

"Right you are."

Jake's radio crackled to life, and while he answered his dispatch operator, I picked up my phone and touched my e-mail app to punch out a quick reply to Edward's last message.

_From: Bella Swan _

_To: Edward Cullen _

_Sent: Saturday, January 7, 2012 12:55 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Single, huh?_

_Edward,_

_Hm. Interesting. Should I change my relationship status on Facebook? That's the measure of monogamy these days, you know. _

_Bella_

His reply came through as we were parking outside _TaComas_, and I read it quickly as Jake killed the engine and we stepped out into the freezing air.

_From: Edward Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Saturday, January 7, 2012 1:04 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Single, huh?_

_Bella,_

_I don't have a Facebook, but feel free to decorate your page with my name – doodle it in the margins, list me as your boyfriend, whatever it takes to discourage the affections of any other poorly-dressed, handsy losers until I get back._

_And, taking your advice, I'm off to bed. Enjoy your Saturday._

_Edward_

Once we were settled in a booth with colossal burritos in baskets before us and a bowl of queso dip to share, Jake cleared his throat. "So, I need your advice."

"You got it," I said around a mouthful of tortilla chip, peeling the first band of foil wrapper away from my burrito.

"What do you think of Alexander's?"

I frowned as I chewed the larger-than-ladylike mouthful of food and swallowed before answering. "The restaurant?" I clarified, and he nodded. "I've never been there, but I've heard good things. Why?"

He shifted slightly and took an enormous bite of his own lunch before answering. "I have a date," he admitted, watching me carefully as he chewed.

I grinned. "A date, huh?"

He swallowed. "Yeah, well, couldn't wait around for you forever. Unless you've changed your mind in the past 72 hours."

I shook my head. "No such luck, bud. Who's the girl?"

A shrug. "Name's Vanessa. Works in the Assistant DA's office. We met when I was called in to testify about the validity of an arrest." He took a sip of his soda before his dark eyes found mine. "Bella, I know I kid around with you a lot, but I want to be really honest here. I've been half in love with you since we were kids, and if you gave me a chance, I think I could be really good for you. But I don't want to keep hanging around waiting for something that will never happen. So I guess I'm putting this out there one last time." I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and tried to keep my expression open as I returned my half-wrapped burrito to its basket. "I would love to date you. I'd love to see if there's something more between us than we have right now. But if it's a no for you and it's always going to be a no, I'll stop asking. This will be the last time. You have my word."

I considered him for a moment, this boy I'd known since I was a kid, this man who had been there for me nearly every day of my life. This guy I loved like a brother. The honesty in his words pulled at my chest and I reached across the space between us to cover his hand with mine. "Jake, you know I love you, but it's never been that way for me." He nodded quickly, looking down at my hand atop his. "I love you like a brother, and I always will. But that's it for me. I'm sorry." He shook his head quickly and grinned up at me.

"Had to give it one last try, didn't I?"

I smiled back. "You did."

He blew out a breath and pulled his hand out from beneath mine, patting the back of my hand once before picking his burrito back up. "You should know that I'll still be screening your dates," he said lightly as he took an enormous bite, and another thought of Edward skipped through my mind. I'd always had a terribly open face, and that combined with my lack of witty retort was all that the investigator in Jake needed to make an educated guess. "Oh, boy."

"What?" I asked, going for innocence, but Jake's bullshit radar was too finely honed from years on the job to let it slide.

"I know that look. I've hated that look for too many years not to recognize it. You've got somebody, don't you?"

I flushed at the implication that I _had_ Edward, and Jake smiled even as the familiar edge lurked in his eyes. I suspected that would take a while to disappear completely, though I was grateful for and not a little bit relieved by his promise to let it go. "If we're going to be friends forever, this is the part where you clue me in."

I sighed. "It's just… a guy."

"Details." I peeled away another strip of foil and took a small bite to buy myself some time. "I know all the delaying tactics," he reminded me, and I glared at him as I chewed.

Finally I told him the bare bones and he frowned. "Some random guy you met in an airport?" he said finally. I shrugged. The descriptor was accurate, even if it didn't quite ring true. When I offered no further details, Jake sighed and dunked a chip into the queso. "I wasn't kidding about the background check," he said in warning, and I slurped my soda.

"Check away," I replied.

* * *

_From: Bella Swan _

_To: Edward Cullen _

_Sent: Sunday, January 8, 2012 11:17 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Strangers_

_Edward,_

_You were a stranger in an airport. Now you're the last thing I think of at night._

_Isn't life funny?_

_Bella_

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading, recommending, and reviewing this story, and for the encouragement to continue. There will be more; I hope it lives up to your expectations._

_Happy Thanksgiving to my American peeps; to everyone not in the U.S., go eat a crap-ton of food anyway. xo_


	3. Chapter 3: Standby

**Departures**

**Summary: **"Bella, I'm pretty sure this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: **I'm not in the habit of owning people, but I'd own Edward Cullen if I could. Alas, that privilege belongs to one Stephenie Meyer. Lucky witch.

**Acknowledgement:** HollettLA is beta-tastic. She can fix my grammar mistakes while drinking; I try valiantly not to let this make me feel stupid. Also, we have big plans to take over the world, and there will be brownies and pancakes.

* * *

**Chapter Three: Standby**

I suppose I should be grateful that it's not raining. Or sleeting. This is, after all, the Pacific Northwest, and snow in April is far from unheard of. I should be thankful that while I am sitting in miles of traffic, being torturously detained on my way to pick up Edward, the sun is shining and I have my windows rolled down. I've even enjoyed some amusing commiseration with my fellow drivers who also have their windows open. Still, I'm unable to find any real pleasure in these small graces when I think about what awaits me a mere 1.75 miles away.

"This sucks," I hear from somewhere to my left, and I turn to see a tattooed guy with Oakley sunglasses behind the wheel of a Jeep Wrangler, sans doors.

"So hard," I agree. "Any idea what's going on?"

He waves toward his dashboard and, ostensibly, his radio. "Multi-vehicle accident, they said."

"Shit."

"Somewhere to be?"

It isn't until I note that I can hear him quite clearly that I realize he's turned off his ignition and, judging by the relative quiet around me, I deduce that most of my fellow travelers have done the same. I may be the only one whose engine is still optimistically idling. "Airport," I say.

"Bummer," he offers, and I nod.

"Total bummer," I agree, glancing toward my own dash and the clock.

_Motherfucker._

My phone chirps with an incoming text, and I snatch it from the cup holder, equal parts relieved and disappointed when it isn't Edward informing me that he's back on solid ground.

_Remind my brother-in-law to call me before you tear his clothes off, please._

Despite my increasing anxiety, I smile. The friendship I've developed with Alice – and, for that matter, Jasper and Emmett – in a matter of mere months is nearly as surprising and wonderful as the relationship I've developed with Edward. Some days I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea that this side of six months ago, none of these people were in my life, and now they're a big part of it on an almost daily basis.

Reflexively, I glace at the clock again.

I'm never going to make it.

* * *

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Sunday, January 8, 2012 11:17 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Strangers_

_Edward,_

_You were a stranger in an airport. Now you're the last thing I think of at night. _

_Isn't life funny?_

_Bella_

_. . ._

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Monday, January 9, 2012 8:43 a.m. PST_

_Re: The last thing you think of at night_

_Hello stranger,_

_That's a pretty quick matriculation. Is it silly that I'm concerned that more time in my presence might lead you to realize that I'm really nothing special? Though far be it from me to talk you out of anything._

_Edward_

_. . ._

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Monday, January 9, 2012 4:37 p.m. PST_

_Re: Matriculation_

_Edward,_

_Are you absolutely certain I'm not just in it for the sex? Honestly, I'm having a hard time getting the footbridge story out of my head._

_Bella_

_. . ._

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Tuesday, January 10, 2012 7:16 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Clarification_

_Bella,_

_Did you not hear the footbridge story? Although if you like the idea of splinters in your ass, I'm sure we could find a wooden paddle to put to good use..._

_Edward_

_. . ._

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Tuesday, January 10, 2012 2:40 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Pervert_

_Edward,_

_Wow. A dirty mind. I'm sort of speechless. (I'll have to get back to you on the paddle.)_

_Bella_

_. . . _

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Tuesday, January 10, 2012 9:40 p.m. PST_

_Subject: You started it_

_Bella,_

_You have no idea. Although, if memory serves, over the span of nine hours we discussed your bedroom, tantric sex, prophylactics, public sex, disposable underwear, and rubbing. If you're surprised that I'm not exactly a choir boy, perhaps I didn't paint myself in an entirely accurate light. Trust me when I tell you that upon my return, that will be remedied._

_Edward_

. . .

_It's not normal_, I kept trying to tell myself as the days slipped by. It _couldn't_ be normal to feel this way, to feel like a fifteen-year-old girl with her first crush: obsessed, fixated, flustered. It couldn't be normal, it certainly wasn't rational, but I was helpless against it, and as the e-mails came in, I answered every single one of them with more punctuality than I ever answered my work e-mails. With every click of the "send" button, I realized exactly what was happening, even as logic suggested that it was ridiculous. Nobody had love stories like this anymore, stories of chance meetings and long-distance courtships, did they? And yet.

Over the course of the weeks that followed, I virtually coasted through my job, my life, and my day-to-day existence, hyper-aware of the telltale ping in my e-mail app that alerted me to an incoming message. When the sender wasn't Edward, disappointment was instant and cutting; when it was, the sheer elation was eclipsing and was enough to make me feel pathetic. Almost. I probably _would_ have felt pathetic, if I wasn't so damn giddy all the time.

Just about the only thing that took me off of autopilot was the assignment for my massive photo spread, and the coincidence of the subject matter was far from lost on me. When I finally scrounged up the courage and composure to call the number on the Post-it, I realized what Lou meant when he said the veteran I'd be photographing wasn't particularly verbose. What I didn't realize until I actually saw him was how _young_ he would be.

"Hi," he greeted me when he opened the front door of his parents' house, his forearms flexing as he struggled to swing the door all the way open while maintaining his balance on his crutches. "Sorry. Hang on." He shoved the door forcefully with the rubber-tipped end of one crutch before using the other to push the screen door ajar slightly. "Still getting used to these."

"No problem," I replied, hoisting my camera bag higher on my shoulder as I climbed the concrete porch stairs and stepped into the foyer of the small brick house. I allowed my eyes to quickly catalog his features, and the word that stayed at the forefront of my mind was "young." His arms, despite being muscled, were long and lean; his torso was flat, his face smooth and open, his eyes bright. "It's nice to meet you in person. Thanks for agreeing to do this."

He shrugged. "No problem. It's not very interesting though." His hands flexed around the rubber grips of his crutches. "_I'm_ not very interesting," he clarified after a beat, and I shook my head quickly.

"Everybody's interesting," I reassured him with a smile, which he returned with a relieved one of his own.

"Okay. Well, uh, welcome. Oh, I'm Seth." He propped one crutch under his arm and extended a hand toward me.

"Bella," I replied, accepting the proffered handshake and the returning the unnecessary introduction.

"I was just getting ready to go to my appointment," he said, reclaiming his crutch. "You said that's something you wanted to see?"

I nodded. "I want to see whatever it is you do on a daily basis."

He chuckled. "It's pretty lame," he warned me. "I go to the doctor and I sit on the couch. And I eat." His words would have sounded bitter if not for the easy smile on his face. "But you're welcome to any part of my day."

"Great," I replied. "Maybe I'll get my camera set up while you finish getting ready?"

He nodded and disappeared into the back of the house as I rested my bag on a small kitchen table. As I pulled out a lens, I heard muffled voices coming from the direction in which he'd disappeared; after a moment, a woman appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear the doorbell," she said, a guarded smile on her face. "I'm Sue Clearwater."

I returned her smile. "Hi, Mrs. Clearwater, I'm Bella Swan; you spoke to my editor, Lou."

"Yes, of course." I watched as her eyes left my face and settled on my camera equipment; almost instantly, I recognized the wariness in her eyes. "Seth's just getting ready," she murmured, her eyes watching my movements as I affixed the lens to the body of my Canon and twisted it to lock it in place.

"Great," I replied, capping the lens I'd just taken off and stashing it in my bag. Flipping the lid of my bag closed, I turned to face her fully, lowering the hand holding my camera down by my thigh. "Mrs. Clearwater—"

"Sue," she interrupted me, her eyes finally finding mine again. "Please call me Sue."

"Okay. Sue." I offered her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "I want to tell you something up front. I'm not here to exploit your son." Her dark eyebrows hitched in surprise, even as something that looked like relief flickered in her eyes. She said nothing, so I continued. "Your son's service is something that deserves to be celebrated; that's why I'm here. I'm not going to do anything to compromise his integrity or paint him in an unflattering light or otherwise upset you or him; you have my word."

The easing of Sue's posture was nearly visible, and she let loose a small exhale. "Thank you," she said after a moment. "I appreciate that." I nodded, and after a beat she frowned at me. "Do you have family in the service?"

"I'm sorry?"

She was still studying me, her head cocked ever-so-slightly to one side. "You seem…very understanding. I was just wondering if you had family in the military."

"Oh." I frowned. "I don't. My father is a police officer. But my, uh, boyfriend is in the Army."

"Oh," she said, and a small smile appeared as her forehead smoothed. "Well, that explains it. You understand, then."

My brain was still trying to come to terms with the fact that I'd outwardly identified Edward as my boyfriend. While he had essentially described himself as such in his e-mail, it was the first time I'd so casually dropped it into conversation, as if we were an established thing and not a work in progress, and the word hovered around my head like a cloud of smoke. "I understand," I assured her in an attempt to mask the turmoil that I'd unwittingly unleashed with my own words.

"Where is he?" Sue asked, suddenly a conversationalist.

"Afghanistan," I replied. "He's with an EOD team."

"Oh," she said, her voice suddenly colored with concern. "Well. Yes, then. You understand."

I didn't care for the pity that appeared on her face or the sudden spike of despair that it sent shooting up my spine, but the sudden reemergence of Seth forced me to push it to the back of my mind to pick apart later. I smiled at him, lifting my camera slightly. "Okay. So basically, I'm just going to be hanging out and shooting photos of you doing what you normally do," I said. "I know it's weird, but just try to pretend like I'm not here. And if at any point you'd like me to stop shooting, just say the word and I'll lower the camera, okay?"

"Okay," he replied easily, and I turned to Sue.

"That applies to you, too," I told her. "If you'd like me to stop, just let me know."

"Thank you," she said again, and I nodded.

"Okay. Well…here we go."

I spent the remainder of the morning shooting Seth doing mundane things that, for him, were now anything but: making breakfast, putting his shoes on, descending the front porch steps, getting into the backseat of the car. At his physical therapy appointment, I took frame after frame of him struggling with simple strengthening exercises, pain evident in his eyes even as his smile rarely faltered. He joked about his own weakness, his own pain, and even his own failures when he stumbled and nearly fell. Once the more laborious part of his session was over and he was sitting with his leg propped up on a padded table, ice packs clustered around his leg from knee to ankle, I lowered my camera. "Seth, can I ask you a question? You can absolutely opt not to answer, if you want."

"Shoot," he said, and a pleased grin split his face as he glanced at my camera. "Ha."

I grinned. "Okay. Well, how do you stay so positive? I mean, you've clearly been through a lot, even though I don't know the half of it."

He considered me for a moment before shrugging. "I'm alive," he said after a moment. "I knew the risks of my job going in, and the possibilities were worse than a bum leg." He shrugged again. "I'm lucky. I came home."

The spike of fear I'd felt at Sue's earlier words shot through me again, and I nodded. I was searching for something more to say when the physical therapist stepped between us to finish up Seth's session.

"He was always like that," I heard from behind me after a moment, and I glanced over my shoulder to find Sue's dark eyes watching her son interact with his therapist. "Even as a baby. Always so easygoing, so matter-of-fact. He gets that from his father, I think." She smiled. "My daughter is more like me: defensive and guarded. Which I'm sure you noticed earlier today." I didn't answer as we both watched Seth let his trainer stretch and rotate his foot, the skin splotched red and white from the ice packs. "Can I say something off the record?" she asked softly, and I pulled my gaze from Seth to face her fully.

"Sue, I'm not a journalist. I'm not writing down quotes. If I want to use anything you say for a caption, I'll ask you, but otherwise nothing you say is going to show up in the paper."

She bit her lip as her eyes stayed on her son. "Some days I think I'm a bad mother. A part of me is glad he got hurt too badly to go back." At this admission, her dark eyes found my face. "He's hurt, but he's here. With every additional tour, the risk of that outcome changing increases; he only went once, but he won't go back, which means he won't die over there." She looked away. "Sometimes I worry about what kind of mother that makes me, to be relieved that my child is in pain."

I toggled the shutter button of my camera absently, as if I were trying to focus it, and it hummed as it searched in vain for a comfortable focal point.

I swallowed as I watched Seth, and when I turned my head to face Sue, her dark, guarded eyes gazed back at me. "I'm not a parent," I said softly, careful to keep my voice out of Seth's range of hearing. "But I think it makes you a loving and protective mother, to be relieved that your child is home and will be staying there. I think any mother whose child didn't come home would tell you that what you're feeling is absolutely okay, and that they'd give anything to be feeling the same thing."

Her gaze was piercing, and I watched her face as she appeared to weigh the truth of my words against her own preconceived illusions. After a beat, her hand came up to grasp my bicep just above the crook of my arm.

"Thank you, Bella," she murmured, as we both turned to watch Seth, injured but alive, taking careful steps back toward healing.

. . .

_From: Bella Swan _

_To: Edward Cullen _

_Sent: Friday, January 20, 2012 5:57 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Where you are_

_Edward,_

_I wasn't kidding when I told you my geography sucks, and I'm not kidding when I tell you that my true understanding of the realities of your day-to-day life in that part of the world is virtually nonexistent. I've seen movies about it, I read the newspaper, but I don't know what YOUR day is like, what YOUR minutes are like. Tell me more about your life as a soldier. Tell me what you're doing while I'm sitting here at a desk in my comfortably heated office, waiting for more of your words._

_Bella_

_. . . _

_From: Edward Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Saturday, January 21, 2012 3:39 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Life these days_

_Bella,_

_Honestly, it's pretty boring except when it's not, and when it's not, you wish it would go back to boring. Excitement is really only a nicer word for danger, and so while dull can be mind-numbing, it's preferable. Sometimes I worry about how these experiences might change me; I already know I'm less quick to trust, more quick to doubt. Even when I'm not in hostile territory I find myself scanning my surroundings for threats, and I hope I'm not one of those people who will always need to sit facing the door in restaurants, though I acknowledge that it's possible. I hear all of these stories about how veterans hate the Fourth of July because of the fireworks, and it makes me sad because it's always been my favorite holiday. I mean, every kid loves Christmas, of course, but there's something about fireworks and hot dogs and sunburns that make me feel more like a kid than Santa and reindeer and all the Christmas carols combined. And I really hope that doesn't change for me after this is all over with._

_Most of the guys in my unit are younger than I am, and I think they see this as kind of an adventure, at least at first; sometimes I feel like the big brother, responsible for their safety, and that's a first for me. I've always been the youngest, and while I didn't grow up in a war zone, I get small glimpses into the protectiveness that I figure my brothers sometimes felt for me, though certainly on a much smaller scale. It's a big responsibility, and though most days I'm okay with it, there are times when it can be overwhelming._

_I guess the best thing I can say is that life here is all-consuming. _

_As are you and your words._

_Edward_

* * *

My response to the tiny little ding of my e-mail alert was by that point nearly Pavlovian, so when I jammed my pinkie toe into the corner of my bed in my rush to snatch my phone from my nightstand, I howled and spit and cursed even though I had no one to blame but my pathetic self. My self-rebuke was expounded when I saw that the e-mail responsible for the alert wasn't even from Edward, but after a breath I realized that while the sender was different, the surname was the same.

_From: Alice Brandon Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2012 5:31 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Edward's sister_

_Dear Bella,_

_I apologize for the out-of-the-blue e-mail. My name is Alice and I'm Edward Cullen's sister-in-law. Edward gave me your e-mail address after I told him that my husband and I are going to be relocating to the Seattle area with our daughter soon, and he thought you might be able to provide some guidance as to neighborhoods, school districts, etc. Any insights you'd be willing to offer would be most welcome._

_I hope to hear from you._

_Sincerely,_

_Alice Cullen_

I stood with one foot flat and the other rubbing up and down the back of my calf as I reread the message once more.

_Edward's sister-in-law? The one with the slutty bridesmaid friend?_

I had no idea what the protocol should be in such a situation. As if things with Edward and me weren't unconventional enough, now his sister was e-mailing me. Something told me that if things were different, if Edward were here and I had daily access to him, the idea of someone in his family contacting me out of the blue might seem a little strange. As it stood, I craved anything Edward-related like a kid craved sugar, and the unexpected communication from his free-spirited sister-in-law was a surprisingly welcome development.

After a quick glance at my injured toe – not bleeding, thank God – I tapped my screen to reply.

_From: Bella Swan _

_To: Alice Brandon Cullen _

_Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2012 5:53 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Edward's sister_

_Dear Alice,_

_No need to apologize; it's nice to (sort of) meet you. I'd be happy to offer any guidance I can in terms of Seattle life. There are some really nice neighborhoods for young families and some great areas for young professionals – Bellevue/Eastside area and Queen Anne and Ballard areas in particular. I don't know what you and your husband do, but I'm sure you'll be able to find something that suits you nicely. I admit that I am not a product of the Seattle school system, as I grew up in a small town a few hours from here, but I have friends I could ask about schools, and there are a few districts that have good reputations. As I said, anything you need, I'd be happy to help you with._

_Sincerely,_

_Bella Swan_

Nearly half an hour later I was stirring spaghetti sauce on the stove when my e-mail pinged again. Setting the ladle in the spoon rest beside the burner, I tapped the screen to find another e-mail from Edward's sister.

_From: Alice Brandon Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan _

_Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2012 6:32 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Thank you!_

_Bella,_

_Thank you so much for your response! My husband and I will be in Seattle next week to go house hunting, and we will certainly focus on the areas you suggest. This might sound strange, but he has a meeting with some representatives of his company and I don't know anyone in Seattle, so I was wondering if you'd like to meet for lunch? My treat._

_Also, Edward was very adamant that I not harass you. (His word.) Which really only makes me want to ask you a million questions that have nothing to do with my pending relocation. I feel that I should tell you that up front. Let me know!_

_Alice_

_xxx_

Just as I was tapping my fingers against my lips and silently debating whether I was ready to meet Edward's effervescent-seeming sister, my inbox popped up with another message. This time, a grin split my face immediately and I didn't hesitate to open it.

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2012 6:40 p.m. PST_

_Hey Bella,_

_I feel like I should warn you: I gave my sister-in-law your e-mail address. I hope I haven't overstepped my bounds, but she and my brother are moving to the Seattle area with Sophie, and I may have sort of let it slip that my girlfriend lived there, and Alice being Alice jumped all over the "girlfriend" part of the sentence rather than the "I know someone in Seattle" part, so she's hell-bent on peppering you with questions under the guise of shopping Seattle real estate and school districts. In advance, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking: I'd blame the desert heat and possible dehydration, but really I think it's just that I'll take any opportunity I can to talk about you. (Am I off the hook yet, or do you need more sweet-talk?)_

_Please forgive me._

_Edward_

The wide smile on my face must have been blinding, because it took Angela all of five seconds after stepping into the kitchen to comment on it.

"You look like a jack-o'-lantern," she said, her voice teasing as she pulled a box of spaghetti from the cupboard next to the microwave. "Another e-mail from Sergeant Hottie?"

"Major Hottie," I replied, and in unison, Angela and I tipped our fingers to our foreheads in mock-salute and echoed, "Maaajor Hottie."

She cracked up. "God, I love _How I Met Your Mother_. It's so applicable to real life, especially given your new boy-toy."

"I'm glad my relationship is a source of comedic fodder for you," I replied, my smile undermining my attempt at disapproval.

"How is he?" Another thing to add to the list of things I loved about my roommate: she's able to genuinely care about someone she's never met and inquire as to his well-being, simply because I care about him.

"He's good." I watched the sauce bubble before me. "Actually, I got an e-mail from his sister-in-law."

"What?"

As I filled her in, Angela's eyebrows climbed until they were visible above the frames of her glasses. "Wow. Meeting the family."

"I wouldn't characterize it like that, exactly."

"Characterize it however you like," she teased, filling a large pot with water and situating it on the burner. "But promise me that when you meet this sister-in-law, you'll get her to give you a picture. I want to see this guy."

I opted not to answer, unsure as to just how weird that would be. Despite the fact that I'd love a photo of Edward to have myself, asking his sister-in-law for one seemed a little too "I-need-something-to-tape-in-my-locker" for my liking. As I stirred, Sue's earlier words floated back into my mind, and the unwelcome thought that I might never have the chance to take his picture myself followed close on their heels.

"Or not." Angela's words applied the brakes to my racing mind, and I realized when I looked at her that my despair must have been evident on my face, which she was scrutinizing with concern. "You okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Good."

Her frown deepened. "Where'd you go?"

I laid the ladle on the spoon rest and half-turned, resting my hip against the lip of the counter. "Somewhere scary." Off her expectant look, I shrugged. "He's somewhere dangerous, and I hate it."

Understanding lit her features and she nodded. "Yeah. That's got to be hard."

"It's stupid how fast this is going," I admitted. "How quickly I feel this strongly about someone I spent only a few hours with."

Angela mirrored my posture, her own hip finding the edge of the counter, and she crossed her thin arms over her chest. "How long were Mike and Jess together?"

I couldn't stop my eyes from rolling at the memory of the drama-ridden relationship of our two friends, who spent eight years together alternately loving and hating each other before finally parting ways. "Too long."

"Right. And they weren't right for each other." She shrugged, straightening to tip a box of pasta into the now-boiling water. "Longevity doesn't dictate significance, or even rightness. Sometimes you just…know."

I chewed my lip as I chewed her words. Logic told me that what was happening with Edward was unusual, but my heart didn't care about logic. "Thanks," I said finally, retrieving the ladle.

"Let me salute him and call him 'Major Hottie' when I meet him, and we'll call it even."

I laughed, and felt instantly lighter. "Deal."

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2012 9:51 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Payback's a bitch_

_Edward,_

_Yes, I already heard from your sister-in-law. Twice, in fact. She sounds very nice. _

_I should tell you right now that given your obvious lack of concern about my interacting with your family, I'll be taking this opportunity to dig for lots of embarrassing stories about you, not to mention any photographic evidence of the aforementioned embarrassment that may exist. _

_You brought this upon yourself, I'm afraid. Have a good day – or, if you read this at night, sweet dreams._

_xo,_

_Bella_

* * *

A week later I was twenty minutes early for my lunch date with Alice, thanks to a photo assignment that wound up taking a lot less time than I allotted for it, so I was somewhat relieved when my phone rang while I was sitting at a table by myself with a glass of water in front of me. After a quick glance at the screen, I swiped to answer.

"Hey, Rose," I said in greeting, glancing around to make sure I wasn't disturbing any fellow diners. The tables around me were blessedly unoccupied.

"Bella," she sighed, and at tone of her voice, I frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, relief still thick in her voice. "I'm just glad to hear your voice. I know you're usually working in the afternoon, and I thought I might get your voicemail."

"I'm actually waiting for a lunch meeting," I said, frowning at the silverware bundled in a green linen napkin beside my glass. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she said again, but her voice faltered. "I just…wanted to talk."

"Okay," I said, fighting to keep my voice light despite the prickle of unease that had begun as soon as she said my name. "How's it going?" The pause before her reply was all it took to confirm my suspicion. "Rosie, what's wrong?" Her response was a hitched breath, and the possibility that Rosalie – tough-as-nails, no-bullshit Rosalie – might be crying on the other end of the phone brought me even nearer to the edge of panic. "Rose," I breathed. "Talk to me."

"I…I don't know what to do."

"What to do about what?"

"Royce."

"Why, what happened?"

There was a pause before she spoke again, her voice even more hushed. "I think he's sick."

I frowned. "Sick?" Sick didn't quite gel with the tone of her voice, and it struck me that sick might be an understatement. "Rose, what do you mean 'sick'?" I had visions of my friend sitting beside her fiancé's hospital bed, watching as he died, and while I'd never been super crazy about Royce, the idea of watching Rosalie lose the man she loved to a terminal illness tugged at my heart. Before I could chase the thought too far, though, her voice was in my ear again.

"Like, mentally…sick."

I frowned as my brain tried to make the necessary U-turn. "What?"

"He's…been acting really strange. Like…paranoid. And sometimes it's like he's not even here when he's here. He gets on these tangents and I can't talk him down, and when I try it's like he doesn't even see me, like I'm not standing in front of him. And he gets…really angry sometimes, and I can't help him snap out of it."

My mind flashed to the last time I spoke to Rosalie and the sound of shattering china in the background. "Rose." I tried to make my voice firm but gentle. "Did he…hurt you?"

"No," she said softly, but I'd known Rosalie for years and I knew what a lie sounded like when it fell off her perfect, painted lips. "He…he's just not himself."

"Rose, if he hurt you, you need to leave."

"He's sick, Bella…he…I'm worried about him."

"I'm worried about _you_," I said. "If he's sick, we'll get him help, but you need to be okay, too."

"I'm fine. I just…I need someone to help me help him. He won't…he doesn't want to talk to anyone."

Not for the first time, I cursed the fact that I was so far from my friend. "What do you mean?"

"I tried suggesting that he talk to someone the other night, when he wasn't…when he was more like himself, but he just got angry with me and said it was work-related stress and that I wouldn't understand."

The not-uncommon implication that Rosalie was a trophy wife rankled me, but I tried not to let the familiar resentment color my words. "Rose, if he won't talk to someone, you can't make him."

"I just need to convince him," she replied, and I knew that despite the fact that she had wanted to talk to someone, she wasn't hearing me. "He's worried what people will say – what his father will say – but I just need to make him see that nobody has to know. That it's all confidential and that it will help."

While I didn't know Royce nearly as well as Rosalie did, the idea that he would admit to any kind of weakness, let alone one that would require professional help, struck me as unlikely bordering on impossible. "How are you going to convince him?" I asked slowly, trying valiantly not to awaken Rosalie's defensive side.

"I'll just…talk to him." A relieved sigh came through my earpiece. "Thanks, Bella. For listening."

"Rose, I didn't do anything." The truth of my own words hit me; I'd really done nothing, and I felt helpless at the combination of physical distance and Rosalie's reluctance to let me talk _her_ down.

"You did. You're such a good friend." I could hear the good-bye that was coming, and my phone was slippery in my sweaty palm.

"Rose, listen to me. I want you to promise me. If he hurts you, promise me you'll leave him."

"He won't," she replied, but her answer sounded far more rehearsed than genuine. It sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to reassure me.

"If he does," I pressed. There was a pause, and even with two thousand miles of distance between us, I could almost see the doubt playing over Rosalie's beautiful face, the familiar insecurities that a life of privilege had bought her. I remembered her fear of alienating her family, of insulting Royce's family, even when we were in college. The feeling that she was trapped, even with all she had at her disposal. "Rose, you can always come here. You'll always have somewhere to go, no matter what happens, okay?"

"It'll be fine," she said, her voice all forced cheer and thin bravado. After a brief pause, she spoke again; this time, her tone was the cool nonchalance she had perfected during her years of high society mingling. "Thanks for listening, Bella. I'll talk to you soon."

Before I could say anything else, there was a click that signaled the end of the call. I lowered my phone and stared at it, concern tinged with mild panic creating a knot of distress in my throat. Too suddenly, Rosalie's life sounded even more like a Lifetime movie than it once had, and as I forced my breathing to remain steady, I silently prayed that it wouldn't end in something painful or worse.

I sat silent for a few minutes, debating whether or not it would be rude to flag down a waiter and order something stronger than water before Edward's sister-in-law even arrived. I didn't want to paint myself as a lush, but my heart was a jackhammer in my chest and my palms were sweaty, and it seemed to me that as first impressions went, a glass of wine at my elbow was preferable to a wild-eyed woman on the edge of a full-fledged panic attack. I had very nearly decided to request a glass of pinot grigio when a dark-haired woman suddenly appeared in front of me.

"Bella?"

I looked up into clear gray eyes that were studying me expectantly and nodded. Red-painted lips widened into a warm smile; this must be Alice. "Hi! It's so nice to meet you! I'm glad you're Bella; you were the only one sitting alone, and Edward said you had dark hair and were really pretty, and you do and you are. I'm Alice," she said, extending a hand.

"Hi," I said, struggling to drag my mind away from Rosalie for long enough to enjoy a casual lunch with Edward's sister-in-law. Then I registered her assertion that Edward described me as "really pretty," and a slow warmth began to bloom in my chest.

Alice lowered herself to the seat across from me just as a waiter appeared beside our table to take her drink order. She glanced at my glass of water and then at my face. "Okay, I'm not a lush, I swear, but are you having wine or anything? Because I've been listening to a realtor yammer on about square footage and crown molding all morning, and even though it's barely noon, I would maim someone for a glass of sauvignon blanc right now."

I nodded in encouragement, and once we had each ordered a glass and the server had disappeared, her gray eyes honed in on my face. "So." She folded her manicured hands on the table in front of her. "I'm guessing Edward warned you that I would be talking your ear off."

I smiled. "He did mention something along those lines," I admitted, and Alice rolled her eyes.

"Figures. But I told him that he can't tell me that he met a girl who's really pretty and who he really likes and who I'm not allowed to scare and expect me _not_ to want to pester you for details."

A familiar flush suffused my face at her description, and she grinned. I licked my lips and swallowed in an attempt to moisten my throat, which had gone dry at her words. I wanted to say, "_He said he really likes me? And I'm pretty?_" but all that came out was, "He, um…said…well…that's sweet."

As if she heard the words I didn't say, Alice's mouth twisted in a knowing smile and she pulled out her phone. "I know you only have so much time for lunch, so I'm not even going to pretend to be coy about this." She tapped the screen a few times and thrust it toward me; when I took it and glanced at the screen, I saw an e-mail from a familiar address. I shook my head and looked up, holding the phone out even as the thirteen-year-old girl in me desperately wanted to read it.

"I don't think—"

"Read it," she interrupted, taking a sip of her water. "He won't care. He knows I'm a meddler."

I chewed on the inside of my cheek for a fraction of a second before retracting the phone and glancing down at the screen again. As always, I felt a hitch in my chest at the sight of his name.

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Alice Brandon Cullen_

_Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2012 9:27 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Rein it in, Tinker Bell._

_Alice,_

_How you can successfully guilt-trip me from thousands of miles away I'll never know. Fine. Bella's e-mail address is imswan . Please utilize this information with the good trust with which it is being provided, by which I mean DON'T SCARE HER. I mean it, Alice. I like this girl. And, knowing your next question, yes, I mean I like-like her. And you will, too. So please…be nice. Be normal. Don't embarrass me more than is strictly necessary. Don't harass her. Otherwise I'll tell Mom about the time you and Jasper did it in her and Dad's bed during spring break, and you know how she is about those Egyptian cotton sheets. I'm not kidding. _

_Love you. Kiss the bean for me._

_Edward_

Only barely resisting the urge to tap the "forward" icon and send the e-mail to myself, I handed Alice's phone back to her and met her eyes, which were dancing with delight. "That's…really sweet," I said again, and she beamed.

"You're so cute," she said, slipping her phone back into her purse. "No wonder."

"No wonder?" I asked, taking a fortifying sip of the wine that had blessedly appeared beside my knife.

"No wonder you made such an impression on him," she clarified, mimicking my sip and licking her lips. "Edward has really resisted dating while he's in the Army, but I can see why he wasn't interested in letting you slip away."

I willed my cheeks to remain unflushed. "Yeah, he said he hasn't really had many…dates."

She snorted. "Understatement of the century. And with Edward looking like he does, I'm sure you can imagine that it wasn't for lack of opportunity. Plus, I've been trying to find him a girl for ages and he'd never bite."

"Like Jill?" I asked before I could stop myself, and Alice's eyes widened before she let loose a loud belly laugh that seemed at odds with her tiny frame.

"He told you about Jill?"

I grinned. "I was on the other end of the speakerphone at the airport."

She laughed again. "Oh. Shit. Well, clearly it didn't deter you, so I guess I don't owe him an apology. Yeah, Jill's been gaga over Edward for years. But as usual, he wasn't interested."

I wasn't sure if it was the few sips of wine or just an effect of Alice's personality, but I was pleasantly surprised by how at-ease I was feeling already. "I told him I was going to pepper you for embarrassing stories about him," I confessed, and the gleam in her eye told me she wasn't at all averse to spilling some dirt on her beloved brother-in-law.

"Well, there's a really great story about a bridge," she started, and I chuckled.

"Yeah, he told me that one."

At that, her mouth fell open. "He _told_ you that one?" She stared. "What the hell happened between you guys in that airport?"

"We had a lot of time to kill," I said, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Wow. He hates it when we pick on him about that."

"I, um, probably eased the sting by telling him I'd recreate a more successful ending with him one day." Apparently, a few sips of wine were all that it took to rid me of my filter.

Alice's gray eyes speared me for a few minutes before a sly smile slowly stretched across her glossed lips. "Bella, I'm pretty sure this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

We made small talk until the waiter reappeared to take our lunch orders, and when I told Alice about my recent photo assignment with Seth Clearwater, her eyes grew slightly more serious than they had been when we'd been talking about Edward's dating history.

"He sounds like a pretty cool kid," she said when I finished describing the day, and I nodded.

"He is." I pulled a roll apart and plucked a foil-wrapped square of butter from the small bowl beside the breadbasket. "I just…hope he heals. His mother was relieved that he won't be sent back." When she nodded but said nothing, I continued. "He only had to do one tour. She said she was relieved because the odds of soldiers dying increase with each additional tour of duty."

A cool hand was suddenly wrapped around mine, halting the progress in my bread-buttering, and I lifted my gaze to Alice's face. Her expression was serious, and when she spoke, her words made me feel like she had plucked the hypotheticals from my brain without my having to put voice to them.

"Bella, we all worry about Edward, of course we do. But he's going to be fine."

I forced myself to smile. "What are you, a psychic?" I wished my tone sounded more teasing and less hopeful.

She snorted. "Hell no. Psychics are all hacks, anyway; that kind of stuff is reserved for women who wear headscarves and have too many cats and sit behind crystal balls and make infomercials telling you that hearing what you're dying to hear will cost $3.99 a minute." She released my hand and grabbed a roll before continuing. "It's just… Edward is a force. There are people in this world who are just…more than the sum of their parts, and Edward's one of them. He's this presence, and the world just wouldn't be right without him. Whatever higher power you believe it, be it God or Buddha or the sun and the moon, it wouldn't expect the Earth to keep spinning without someone like Edward on it." I could feel the surprise that was masking my face, and Alice chuckled. "Yeah, I know. I'm sort of nuts about my brother-in-law. It's probably weird, and if I weren't so completely in love with his brother, we probably would have had an ill-advised fling years ago." At this, she frowned. "Actually, probably not. He's _really_ picky about who he dates, and I'd have driven him bonkers before I ever got into his pants."

I was so surprised by her words that a bark of laughter fell from my lips before I even realized it was bubbling inside me, and she grinned in return.

"A beautiful friendship," I echoed, and she beamed.

"Edward is going to be just thrilled."

This time, she joined me in my laughter.

* * *

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Wednesday, February 1, 2012 11:12 p.m. PST_

_Subject: The world's too big_

_Edward,_

_When I was a kid, my dad went to a conference on the East Coast once. He said, "Bells, if you miss me while I'm gone, just look up at the moon. The moon you see is the same one I can see in New England, so if you're looking at it, you know it's the same one I'm looking at, and we're really not that far apart." It was brilliant logic, and it made perfect sense to a seven-year-old. It was even surprisingly comforting._

_Unfortunately, twenty-eight-year-olds aren't quite so easily placated. Added to which, they can grasp the concept of time zones. You are half a world away and half a day away, so while I'm gazing at the moon you're baking under a hot desert sun, and this knowledge only serves to make you seem even farther away. Seven-year-old Bella would be so disappointed._

_I miss you, stranger._

_xo,_

_Bella_

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading. _


	4. Chapter 4: Approach

**Departures**

**Summary: **"The what, why, how don't really matter. The who, on the other hand…that feels to me like everything."

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer:** I don't own them. Duh.

**Acknowledgement: **HollettLA's awesomeness truly knows no bounds. Also, she's hilarious.

* * *

_***This chapter is for beachcomberlc, and in memory of Kory and Cooper and all the little boys who wanted to be Batman and tried to save the world.***_

* * *

**Chapter Four: Approach**

Trying desperately not to feel like I'm surrendering, I kill my engine. I ceded a small battle when I shifted gears from "Drive" to "Park" a short time ago, but this feels like I'm surrendering the war. While the engine ticks as it cools, my despair only increases as I realize that I was apparently the last commuter whose car had still been optimistically running, and once it's off I can hear the spring breeze rustling the leaves of the trees along the side of the highway and the faint chirping of birds hidden within the branches. The soundtrack seems at odds with the setting: an open window on the 509 should bestow upon me sounds of cars flying, wind blowing by, the occasional honk. The relative silence is almost eerie in comparison.

I can't even bring myself to look at the clock in my dash because with every glance I do take I can very nearly feel my blood pressure spike. I try to tell myself that it doesn't matter, that he'll wait. That we've been waiting for four months, and that a short delay in our reunion is small potatoes. But the way my heart clenches in my chest and my pulse picks up feels anything but.

I let my head fall back against my headrest as I stare at the car in front of me for a few beats before my eyes slide to the right. On the liftgate of a beat-up Isuzu Rodeo is a bumper sticker that, while I've seen it too many times to count, now means something else entirely. The white star outlined in yellow, the black sticker with a golden frame, the white text that pops against the dark background.

_Proud Parent of a United States Soldier._

Idly, I imagine a sticker on the back of my own car, but as my eyes return to my own lane, I sigh. I doubt they make _"Horny, borderline-desperate girlfriend of a hot-as-hell, bomb-disposing, Pearl Jam-loving demigod soldier"_ stickers. And even if they did, it doesn't quite cover it, somehow.

* * *

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Wednesday, February 1, 2012 11:12 p.m. PST_

_Subject: The world's too big_

_Edward,_

_When I was a kid, my dad went to a conference on the East Coast once. He said, "Bells, if you miss me while I'm gone, just look up at the moon. The moon you see is the same one I can see in New England, so if you're looking at it you know it's the same one I'm looking at, and we're really not that far apart." It was brilliant logic, and it made perfect sense to a seven-year-old. It was even surprisingly comforting._

_Unfortunately, twenty-eight-year-olds aren't quite so easily placated. Added to which, they can grasp the concept of time zones. You are half a world away and half a day away, so while I'm gazing at the moon you're baking under a hot desert sun, and this knowledge only serves to make you seem even farther away. Seven-year-old Bella would be so disappointed._

_I miss you, stranger._

_Bella _

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Thursday, February 2, 2012 9:01 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: The world's too big_

_Bella,_

_God, I miss you too. It's a cruel trick of fate that I met you when I did, and that at the end of the day, I've had only a handful of minutes in your presence. You, stranger, are a reprieve from the horrors and the tedium of this life I've chosen. _

_Today we came across the body of a dead child. A boy who couldn't have been older than ten. In the United States, a dead child is a tragedy of epic proportions. Here, it's almost an expectation. Back home, we're so shielded from these types of atrocities – unless Americans are living in poverty or are facing real honest-to-god hardship or danger on a daily basis, we are blissfully ignorant to suffering, to the gritty hardships of violent life. Of war. Here, men are building bombs in the same homes where their wives and children live. American soldiers break into these homes with rifles raised, shouting commands, and there are mothers holding screaming children while their husbands, brothers, fathers wire bombs in the corners. I can't wrap my mind around that. I think of Sophie, and I don't even want her playing with a toy gun, let alone within miles of enough explosives to level a city block._

_I miss the days when I found myself horrified by things, and picturing you with your camera in a place like this makes me feel desperate in a way I can't articulate._

_Sorry for the heavy. Today was a rough one. _

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Friday, February 3, 2012 9:12 a.m. PST_

_Subject: I humbly offer my own brand of tedium_

_Edward,_

_I don't even know what to say. I have nothing to offer that can in any way counteract the day you had; you refer to the life you have chosen as a form of tedium, but I fear that if I were to share with you the details of my day, you would quickly realize what true tedium looks like. In fact, here it goes:_

_6:45 a.m. – Woke up to radio alarm, preset to classic rock station, which was playing "Beside You" from the Astral Weeks album. Thought of you._

_7:15 a.m. – Threw pajamas in hamper and saw long-sleeved gray Army tee peeking out of top of (admittedly overflowing) basket. Thought of you._

_7:20 a.m. – Showered. (Yes, thought of you.)_

_7:45 a.m. – Hit up drive-through window at Starbucks because it's Friday, and I treat myself to ridiculously overpriced coffee beverages on the most celebrated of weekdays. Thought of diner coffee and pancakes. And you._

_8:30 a.m. – Arrived at work to check e-mail and read your message. Thought of (and missed) you._

_8:45 a.m. – Called into staff meeting where I provided a preview of a photo essay on a wounded veteran who recently returned home from his first tour of duty. Thought of you._

_Truthfully, the only thing about my day that isn't tedious (or probably sane) is how many times I think of you. A so-called stranger. I'm hoping today is better for you._

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Friday, February 3, 2012 3:37 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Anything but tedious_

_Bella,_

_You thought of me in the shower? That little tidbit alone was enough to brighten my day. _

_I have a confession: every time I wait for an e-mail from you, I keep expecting something to pop up that makes me doubt this. After all, we spent less than 24 hours together. There's so much I don't know about you, and what are the odds that a random girl in an airport terminal would wind up being the one? But every message I get from you just makes me want more: more of your words, more of your story, more of YOU. More, more, more._

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Saturday, February 4, 2012 7:32 a.m. PST _

_Edward,_

_I know what you mean. A part of me wants to put this whole thing under a bright light and really study it – figure out what makes it tick, where it came from, how it can survive under these conditions – and yet a part of me doesn't want that at all. All I know for certain is that when I see your name in my inbox, something clenches in my chest. When I watch the news, I don't see random soldiers anymore; I see you. _

_The what, why, how don't really matter. The who, on the other hand…that feels to me like everything._

_Bella_

* * *

When I pulled up to the curb behind the sizeable U-Haul parked in front of a Victorian-style house with a "Sold" sign in the front yard on Saturday morning, I suspected instantly that I should have recruited Jake to help me move my new friends into their new home. On the phone a few days prior, Alice had mentioned that she and Jasper were driving a U-Haul with "a few smaller belongings" while the movers would transport furniture and the majority of their possessions in a moving truck. The U-Haul that Jasper drove up from southern California could likely have fit not only all of my belongings, but my apartment itself as well.

Stepping out of my car, I passed the trailer part of the truck to find Alice and a man who I assumed was her husband standing beside the passenger door with a little girl in the small space between them. As I approached, Alice looked up and grinned.

"Hey!" The man turned, and Alice gestured in his direction. "Bella, this is my husband, Jasper. Jasper, this is Bella."

"Hey there, Bella. Nice to meet you, finally." Edward's brother extended a hand toward me, and I could feel the butterflies flapping around in my stomach. While I already adored Alice, and was pretty confident that she liked me too, this was the first honest-to-God relative of Edward's I was meeting, and the desire to make a good impression hit me as if they'd run over me with their moving van on the way into town. As I furtively studied his features, I wondered which parent Edward looked like; based on this meeting, it was apparent that Jasper probably looked like the other one. He was lean like Edward, and had the same skin tone, but his coloring was much lighter and he wasn't nearly as tall. Idly, I wondered what the cop brother looked like, though I remembered Edward describing him as "hulking." Jasper's worn jeans were frayed at the hems, and bare toes and flip-flops stuck out from beneath them; his hooded sweatshirt was a faded gray with a logo from the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary across the chest. As I was studying him, he lowered his head to spy the child half-hidden behind his denim-clad leg.

"Sophie, this is Miss Bella. She's a friend of Uncle Edward's. Can you say hello?"

"Hello," the little girl said, peeking out despite the fact that her tiny hands had a white-knuckled grip on her father's pants leg.

"Hi," I said, smiling. "Your uncle showed me a photo of you in a very pretty dress."

"From Mama and Daddy's wedding party!" All shyness gone at the mention of her dress, she stepped out from behind Jasper and turned to face Alice. "Mama, can I wear my pretty dress _now_?"

"It's packed in a box, baby. But I promise once we find it, you can wear it for a dinner party, okay?"

Apparently placated, Sophie nodded.

"The movers were only a few miles behind us, so we should probably wait to let them get the bigger furniture in before we start schlepping boxes inside," Jasper said, hoisting his daughter to his hip. "How about we go grab a bite of lunch before we start with the manual labor? I'm starving."

I nodded, tilting my head in the direction of my rust-bucket of a truck. "I'd offer to drive us, but I don't have a back seat."

Jasper shook his head and grinned as he nodded toward the driveway, where a sunshine-yellow Mitsubishi Eclipse was parked. I could only assume it was Alice's car, and its appropriateness was absolute. Off my look, Alice grinned. "Jasper once told me that when he struck it rich, he'd buy me a bright yellow Porsche. We're not there quite yet, so that's my stand-in."

I laughed. "I like it."

"Thank you."

"There's an Everest-sized mountain of Barbies in Alice's car," Jasper said. "How about I ride with you and Alice and Sophie follow us; you can pick somewhere that we can tout for years as the first place we ate when we moved to Seattle."

"No pressure there," I said, and he laughed.

"None whatsoever." He kissed Sophie quickly and put her down; Alice took her small hand and led her to the sports car.

Once Jasper and I were situated in my truck and were navigating the streets near their neighborhood with Alice's conspicuous car following closely behind us, I broke the silence.

"Aren't you freezing in flip-flops?"

He chuckled. "Nah. I wear these all the time."

"Oh."

"So, Bella."

I chewed on the inside of my lower lip as I glanced over at him before returning my focus to the road, grateful for the excuse to avoid prolonged eye contact. "So, Jasper."

"Edward tells me you have a penchant for sex in public."

My eyes flew to his, and the expression in them would have rendered me speechless even if his words hadn't: while the eye color may have been different from Edward's, the twinkling mirth in them was exactly the same. Similarly, the satisfied smirk curling his mouth looked nearly identical, and it was enough to help me regain my footing.

"Well. Edward tells me you have a penchant for sex practices advocated by Sting."

The sudden bark of laughter did a wonderful job of loosening the knot that had formed in my chest, and Jasper leaned back in the passenger seat slightly. "Oh, you're going to fit in just fine."

I let loose the breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Fit in?"

He grinned. "Our family tends to be pretty involved in each other's lives. It's absolutely killing my parents that Edward is halfway around the world, and not just because of what he's doing over there. My mother goes through withdrawals when doesn't get regular updates on our lives. You should be warned: she'll probably fill that deficiency of Edward information by attempting to badger you for information on _your_ life."

And just like that, the alarm was back. "What?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Your mother knows about me?"

This time, it was Jasper who chewed his lip. "Well, yeah. I mean… well, shit. Yeah. Alice told her when we were moving that Edward's girlfriend was helping us find a place, and she about went apoplectic that her baby boy had a girlfriend she'd never heard about."

"Oh, Jesus," I groaned, wringing my hands around my steering wheel. The mild discomfiture I'd felt when I got Alice's first e-mail was nothing when compared with the immediate anxiety that overrode me at the thought of Edward's mother wanting to meet me. At this rate, by the time Edward got home, I would have spent more time with everyone in his family than I'd spent with him. And what if it turned out we didn't really even like each other all that much? I was going to feel pretty freaking stupid.

"You get used to it," Jasper offered, though his attempt at mollification did little to soothe my escalating panic. "Anyway, from what I hear, you can certainly hold your own, so I wouldn't worry about it."

"From what you hear?" I echoed. "What exactly did he tell you?"

Jasper shrugged. "Not much, really. I swear. In fact, he didn't really tell _me_ much of anything. Alice sent him an e-mail of questions, the depth and detail of which would impress a district attorney, and he replied with some details of how you two met."

"Great," I grumbled. I could only imagine what kind of brazen harpy I came across as in such an e-mail, considering the fact that an alarming amount of our airport conversation had been laden with innuendo.

"Hey, Bella?"

"Hey, Jasper."

"I realize we just met, but my brother's legitimately crazy about you. He doesn't get that way often. That's all that matters to my family. Edward's a good guy, and he deserves a good girl. You seem like one."

I forced a deep breath into and out of my lungs. "Thanks. That's nice of you to say."

"And I promise that my mother knows nothing about spring training."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Sunday, February 5, 2012 9:52 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Your family_

_Edward,_

_Okay, well, I met Alice, and now I've met Jasper and Sophie, and apparently your mother knows about me, so that's…weird. While I can't blame you directly, I CAN blame you for whatever you said to Alice in her e-mail, which from what I hear was not unlike a pre-trial discovery phase. I shudder to think._

_I should tell you that I have told my father nothing about you. I think I'll wait and repay the favor by springing the detail of your existence on him just before his next visit. You should know that, as a cop, he has a special fondness for firearms._

_Bella_

* * *

When I arrived at my desk Monday morning, there was a sunflower wrapped in newspaper lying across my keyboard and a venti Starbucks cup beside my mouse. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the newspaper wrapped around the stem of the bloom was a page from our own paper and, in fact, was from the issue that hits the stands today. When I picked it up, Seth's face stared back at me. Frowning, I picked up the coffee cup: still warm and with something scribbled across the coffee collar in black marker. Angling my head, I could just decipher the words scrawled in Lou's barely-legible hand:

_You're big-time, Swan. Nice work._

I grinned and glanced toward his office; unsurprisingly, his door was closed. Unwilling to be deterred, I crossed the space and tapped my fingernails against the glass. Lou growled something that I translated to mean, "Come in," and I poked my head around his door.

"Thanks for the coffee and the flower."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"You going soft on me, Skip?"

"Call me Skip again and I'll have you sifting through obit head shots for a month." He glanced up at me briefly. "It was good work, Swan. The kind of work that generally means you won't be hanging around here much longer."

I smiled, even as Lou's words rang with a surprisingly nostalgic note. "Aw, Lou. And miss our little chats?"

"Out."

I laughed as I slipped out of his doorway with a final "Thanks again" for good measure. As I unwound my scarf and shrugged out of my coat before draping both over the back of my chair, Mike Newton appeared beside my desk with a chipped coffee mug that read, "I Like to Shoot People." I once thought it was mildly amusing; at that moment, however, I was having a hard time finding jokes about bullets funny.

"Nice spread," he offered, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Thanks," I replied, lowering myself into my chair and toggling my mouse to bring my computer monitor to life.

Mike continued to hover, his thumb running over the handle of his mug as he appeared to be considering his next words. Just as he opened his mouth, however, my desk phone rang. I tossed him an apologetic glance before snatching the receiver from its cradle.

"Seattle Weekly, Bella Swan."

"Hi, Bella! It's Sue Clearwater."

"Oh, hi Sue!"

"Bella, I'm sorry to bother you. I just wanted to thank you so much for the wonderful job you did. I picked up the paper this morning, and Seth and I just finished looking at it, and your photos…they're amazing, Bella, truly. They're so…Seth."

"Well, thank you again for letting me into your home. I really enjoyed it."

"Bella…" Sue trailed off before continuing, her voice a slightly lower octave. "You didn't make him look helpless, or pitiable. Thank you for that. It…you should have seen his face when he saw the photos. It was relief, but I think…he felt proud. He hasn't really felt that way since he got home, and your photos gave that back to him. So thank you."

"Sue, please. I didn't do anything. He should be proud, and so should you. Really, it was an honor for me to get that assignment."

"Okay. Well, thank you again. I hope your editor was pleased."

I glanced at my coffee and the sunflower sitting beside my keyboard. "He was."

"Good."

I laughed, and Sue's voice came through the phone again. "And your young man? He's doing okay over there?"

"He is. Thanks."

"He's in my prayers, Bella. They all are, but him and you in particular."

"Thank you, Sue. Really."

"Okay. Well, I won't keep you. Thanks again."

"Thanks for calling."

Once the phone was back in its cradle, I took a sip of the still-hot latte and booted up my e-mail, smiling when I saw the now-familiar name in the sender column. The subject line, however, gave me pause, as did the fact that just beneath the e-mail was another one, sent only a matter of minutes later. Frowning, I opened the earlier of the two.

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Monday, February 6, 2012 7:33 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Mad?_

_Bella,_

_Okay, I'm not sure whether to interpret the tone of your e-mail as sarcastic or not. Are you legitimately upset? I swear, I would never tell Alice – or my mother, for that matter – anything that would embarrass you. You have my word on that._

_Please tell me you're not really upset._

_Edward_

_. . ._

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Monday, February 6, 2012 7:39 a.m. PST_

_Subject: The discovery phase, Alice Cullen presiding_

_Okay, I realize I just e-mailed you six minutes ago. But honestly, Bella, the idea that I've upset you is really bothering me, so I'm forwarding you the e-mail I sent to Alice. Funnily enough, I answered her questions in the very cross examination-esque manner in which they were presented, so you should be able to follow along rather easily. I'll wait to hear from you before I e-mail you AGAIN. I just…I really hope you're not mad at me. I'm sorry if you are._

_Edward_

**_-Forwarded message-_**

**_You have a girlfriend? What the HELL?!_**

_Yes. I have a girlfriend. As I already told you, her name is Bella, and we met at O'Hare when our flights were delayed. She was flying home to Seattle, and I was waiting for my flight to New York._

**_I thought you weren't dating anyone while you're in the Army! How did this happen?!_**

_I'm not. Unfortunately. I'm not DATING Bella, because I'm almost seven thousand miles away from her, and that precludes me from being able to show up on her doorstep with a bunch of flowers and take her out for a romantic dinner. That said, I've had girlfriends before that I loved and adored, and this thing with Bella is more intense after less than 24 hours with her than some of those ever were. Make what you will of that. I'm still trying to make sense of it myself._

**_What's she like?_**

_Smart. Funny. Beautiful. Like, really beautiful. The kind of beautiful where you look at a girl in an airport terminal and even though you check to make sure there are no rings on any meaningful fingers, you figure she MUST have a boyfriend because how could she not? She's a photographer and – get this – wants to take war pictures. If I met a chick over here taking photos of the shit that goes on, I'd think she was a badass. When I imagine Bella doing it, it's hard to breathe._

**_Can I meet her when we go to Seattle?_**

_Oh, Jesus. Alice, please, I'm begging you. PLEASE don't freak her out. You KNOW what our family is like – specifically, you know what Mom is like – and I don't want you guys to make her uncomfortable when I'm too far away to cushion the blow that is the Cullen Inquisition. Please, just...if you can't stop yourself from ambushing her, at least be normal. Don't make it weird. It's already complicated enough. If you can promise me that, I'll give you her e-mail address._

**_Wait, was that why you hung up on me when I asked you about getting laid in Chicago?!_**

_Yes, genius. I had you on speakerphone so Bella could hear Sophie. You're lucky she found it funny, otherwise we'd be having a very different – and less friendly – conversation right now._

**_Do you loooooooove her?_**

_Love takes time, Alice. You should know – your daughter was four before you made an honest man of my brother. But believe me when I say it wouldn't take me nearly as long._

**_How do you go from "we met in an airport terminal" to "she's my girlfriend"? What did you two DO that day? (Or do I even want to know? Oh, who am I kidding…of COURSE I want to know.)_**

_You know, I always sort of wondered what it would have been like to have a sister in addition to my two brothers. Now I know: exhausting. It would have been exhausting. We didn't "do" anything, though it was the most innuendo-laden conversation I've ever had, in the most awesome, not-at-all-weird way. Swear to God, I was more impressed by her love for Pearl Jam than I was for her apparent affinity for sex in public places. Go figure. (And if you show Mom this e-mail, I will give Sophie a puppy and a Red Bull and lock her in your closet with a box of permanent markers. Mark my words.)_

_Does that satisfy your curiosity, Alice? Given my candid disclosure, can I at least extract a promise that you won't scare her off before I have a chance to buy her dinner?_

_Love you guys,_

_Edward_

. . .

I couldn't stop reading his message. While I loved his e-mails to me and cherished every single word of every single one, there was still the underlying getting-you-know-you tone; we were on our best behavior, we chose our words carefully, we edited ourselves. In his e-mail to Alice there was none of that, and while I felt ever-so-slightly voyeuristic, I also felt like I was seeing the real Edward, the Edward I glimpsed when he was on the phone with Alice and Sophie and gazing at me over the lip of his smoothie cup.

While the idea that his mother knew about me had, admittedly, freaked me out, I hadn't intended for Edward to read my e-mail as a scolding. After reading his forwarded Alice-intended e-mail once more, I opened a new window to respond, but before I could, Lou's booming voice echoed through the newsroom, calling the staff to attention for our Monday morning post-issue post-mortem. I grabbed my notebook, my coffee, and a pen and followed the train of staffers making their way to the conference room next door to the editor's office. As I settled into one of the chairs around the large table, my mind wandered back to Edward's message. As it did, a plan began to form, and I took a sip of my latte to hide my sudden smile.

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Monday, February 6, 2012 9:49 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Not mad_

_Edward,_

_I'm sorry. I wasn't mad at all; my e-mail was definitely intended to be sarcastic (if ever-so-slightly scolding). I'm sorry to have worried you. To make it up to you, I am attaching an electronic gift. I promise to let you cash it in for the real thing the next time we're in the same time zone._

_I should also tell you that I really, really, really liked reading your words. All of them…even (and maybe especially) the ones that weren't meant for me. I look forward to more. More, more, more._

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Tuesday, February 7, 2012 6:02 a.m. PST_

_Subject: The most wonderful gift in the history of the world_

_Bella,_

_I've been staring at that photo for a good ten minutes and I'm still speechless. Never has an Army t-shirt looked so good. NEVER._

_As for "cashing it in," I'll be back on American soil in roughly nine weeks, and you had better believe I'll be holding you to that promise._

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Friday, February 10, 2012 7:17 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Address_

_Bella,_

_I'd like your mailing address, please. _

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Saturday, February 11, 2012 9:58 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Address_

_Edward,_

_My mailing address is: 620 Meadow Avenue, Seattle, WA 98101_

_Should I be expecting a singing telegram? Or a stripper? Or some bizarre (but no doubt entertaining) combination of the two?_

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Sunday, February 12, 2012 9:10 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Singing stripper telegrams_

_Bella,_

_Yeah. Because I'm going to send some dude to your house and pay him to lose his clothes. I'd like to think that if anyone's going to be getting anything remotely resembling naked in your presence, it's going to be me._

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Tuesday, February 14, 2012 6:14 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Valentine's Day_

_Edward,_

_I can't even pretend to be disappointed about the absence of a singing stripper telegram – thank you so much for the beautiful flowers. They're gorgeous, and they have the place of honor on our kitchen table; Ben's flowers have been relegated to the windowsill._

_I feel remiss in not sending you something to honor this most controversial of holidays, so I'm going to simply redraw your attention to my previous "electronic gift" and reiterate my promise to pony up the real deal upon your return._

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Wednesday, February 15, 2012 1:33 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Valentine's Day_

_Bella,_

_1. Who's this Ben person, and do I need to be jealous?_

_2. Would you be available to "chat" (online) tomorrow? I can give you the AKO guest account information that Alice and Jasper have used before. I have some free time at around 11 a.m. my time; I realize it's an inconvenient hour for you, so if you can't swing it, please don't feel obligated. I'd just like to have a real-time conversation with you, even if I still can't see your beautiful face._

_Let me know._

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Wednesday, February 15, 2012 6:12 a.m. PST_

_Edward,_

_You think something as trivial as an "inconvenient hour" would make me say no? I'm there. Just tell me what to do. I can't wait to "talk" to you._

_Bella_

_P.S. – Ben is Angela's boyfriend. As per your request, I have deterred any and all other losers – poorly dressed and otherwise – while I wait for your return. And if YOU should feel so inclined to arrive on my doorstep singing and shedding layers, that would be perfectly acceptable. In case you were wondering._

* * *

I shivered slightly as I sat propped against my pillows, a cup of just-brewed coffee in my hands and my bed covers pulled up around my lap. I yawned and glanced over toward my nightstand, re-reading the small rectangular card half-buried in a bouquet of red, orange, and pink Gerbera daisies for the thousandth time.

_I may be too far away to buy you dinner, but flowers…flowers, I can do. Happy Valentine's Day, stranger._

_Edward_

Smiling like an idiot, as had become the norm where all things Edward were concerned, I startled slightly when there was a ping from my computer alerting me to an incoming message. Unfamiliar with the messaging software but relieved to see it wasn't entirely unlike ones I'd used in the past, I smiled as I read Edward's greeting.

_eacullen:_ Well hey there, stranger. What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?

_guest:_ Thank God you didn't open with that line at O'Hare. I think I'd probably have opted to sit in a corner on the dingy airport carpet.

_eacullen:_ Bite your tongue.

_guest:_ This is all very World War II of us, courting via letter.

_eacullen:_ Well, you know, in World War II this would constitute our entire courtship, and I'd marry you the minute I got home.

_guest:_ As lovely as that sounds, I have other plans for the minute you get home.

_eacullen:_ Minute? Trust me, Swan, I'm good for a whole hell of a lot longer than a minute.

_guest:_ I'm counting on it.

_eacullen:_ Though I should offer the disclaimer that the first round probably won't be a marathon, given that I'll be coming off a considerable stint of celibacy.

_guest: _Well, same goes for me, so a marathon probably won't be my first concern.

_eacullen:_ …okay, I have no idea where to go from here.

_guest:_ Ha. Me either. If this were some cheesy erotic romance novel, this would be the part where we'd engage in cyber-sex.

_eacullen:_ Not that the idea doesn't intrigue me, but I'm currently sitting at a desk with my back to a bunch of guys throwing a football back and forth, which you'll admit isn't exactly the ideal scenario for me to whip it out.

_guest:_ Hm. Probably not. I, on the other hand, am sitting in my bed.

_eacullen:_ That's just wrong.

_guest:_ Wearing nothing but an Army tee.

_eacullen:_ Please. Stop. You're killing me.

_guest:_ Sorry.

_eacullen:_ No you're not.

_guest:_ No, I'm not.

_eacullen:_ What color are your sheets?

_guest:_ I thought you wanted me to stop.

_eacullen:_ I did. I do. But I need the complete visual before I can let it go.

_guest:_ Okay. Lavender.

_eacullen:_ Thank you.

_guest:_ You're welcome.

_eacullen:_ Bella, all kidding aside, I want you to know how much I enjoy your e-mails. I can't even begin to tell you…they make home feel less far away somehow. I can't thank you enough for that.

_guest:_ You don't need to thank me, Edward. I feel the same way about yours; they make _you_ feel less far away, somehow. Even though sometimes it's the opposite.

_eacullen:_ I know what you mean.

_guest:_ In the beginning I was worried that if I e-mailed you every day, you'd think I was some crazy stalker chick.

_eacullen:_ I love crazy stalker chicks. E-mail away.

_guest:_ Ha. Seriously, though.

_eacullen:_ You're forgetting that I'm the one who e-mailed you mere hours after we parted ways. Did you think I was a crazy stalker?

_guest:_ No. I thought it was sweet.

_eacullen:_ There you go. Bella, you can e-mail me every hour on the hour and I won't be anything but grateful.

_guest:_ Careful what you wish for, Cullen. The iPhone has made that entirely possible.

_eacullen:_ Terrific.

_eacullen:_ Shit, Bella, I have to go. We're heading out on patrol.

_guest:_ Okay. Be safe, okay?

_eacullen:_ You bet. Sleep tight.

_guest:_ I will. In your t-shirt. Dreaming of you.

_eacullen:_ Seriously. Killing me.

_guest:_ Sorry. Talk to you soon.

_eacullen:_ Good night, Bella. xo

_-eacullen has logged off.-_

I stared at that little "xo" for a good minute before I copied and pasted the entire conversation into a Word document and saved it. Closing my laptop, I rose from the bed and set it on the top of my desk, shivering as the cool wood floor chilled my bare feet. After a beat of hesitation, I made my way to my dresser and tugged open the bottom drawer; while I was initially kidding, I'd inadvertently given myself an idea, and I plucked the increasingly familiar gray cotton from the top of the stack of clean shirts. Slipping it over my head, I allowed myself to luxuriate in the feel of soft cotton as it warmed by degrees against my skin. The covers were a cocoon around me when I returned to my bed, and I sank into the mattress, thoughts of Edward warming me as much as – if not more than – his clothing.

* * *

No phone call that pierces the dead of night is ever good news. Nobody calls after midnight to shoot the shit, or to offer you a promotion, or to tell you that he or she just met the love of his or her life, and so when the high-pitched ring of my cell sliced through the darkness and jarred me from sleep, my heart was already racing by the time I was fully conscious.

For a brief moment I was frozen, staring out into the darkness, one hand clutching the hem of the gray Army tee as panic clawed at my chest. From my bed I could see the glowing screen of my phone, a little bubble of brightness atop my nightstand, and I struggled to breathe.

_No._

My mind flashed to Edward and all of his beautiful words, and the unwelcome image of a roadside explosion hit me like a mortar shell before I forcibly pushed it away.

_No._

I swallowed and made myself release the hem of the shirt, reaching toward my nightstand and retrieving my phone. When I gathered the courage to look at the screen, a quick sigh of relief escaped my lips before an entirely different kind of dread filled my chest.

Swiping the screen to answer, I swallowed and lifted my phone to my ear. "Rose?"

"Bella?" Her voice was thick with tears. "I need your help."

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_CC: Alice Brandon Cullen_

_Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 3:21 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Help_

_Edward (or Alice),_

_You said your brother, Emmett, was a police officer in Chicago. I have a friend who needs help. Can you give me his phone number? ASAP?_

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Friday, February 17, 2012 5:06 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Emmett Cullen contact information_

_Bella,_

_I'm giving you Emmett's personal cell phone number…there's no guarantee that messages left for him at the station actually get to him, and if he's off-duty he'll still answer his cell. _

_Emmett Cullen: (773)555-0620_

_Not to sound like a tool, but tell him you're my girlfriend. He's a good guy and he'll do whatever he can to help. Is everything all right? I realize there's not much I can do from here, but please let me know. I hope your friend's okay._

_Edward_

* * *

_**A/N: **__Quite a few people have inquired as to my updating schedule. I wish I could be one of those writers who says, "I'll update every Tuesday," but (a) that's really not my style, and (b) I have a baby in the house. So really, my updating schedule is "as quickly as possible and as frequently as my teething baby will let me sit down to write." I do promise, however, that it will be completed and in a timely fashion; you won't still be waiting for updates in your inbox next Christmas, and I won't leave you hanging. xo_


	5. Chapter 5: Descent

**Departures**

**Summary: **"You remember that?" "I remember everything."

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: **I wish.

**Acknowledgement:** HollettLA not only fixes my grammar and cheerleads my characters, she introduces me to new concepts like bacon popcorn balls. I'm almost running out of words to describe her epic levels of fabulousness. ALMOST.

* * *

**Chapter Five: Descent**

My father and one of my best friends are both cops, and this little detail is very literally the only thing stopping me from abandoning my stupid truck on the stupid highway and making a mad dash for the airport on foot. Well, that and the fact that the last time I ran a mile was probably in my high school phys ed class, and I'd certainly pass out from lack of oxygen before I even made it to the exit ramp.

A mile and half. A mile and a half is all that stretches between me and the Holy Grail, and it's taken me half an hour to go half a mile. Edward's arrival time looms large in the immediate future, and without some serious divine intervention I'm not going to be standing in the arrivals area at SeaTac as I planned, ready and waiting to throw my arms around his neck and kiss the lips right off his face before I drag him back to my apartment and do the things to him that I've been dreaming of for four months. The things that he's been teasing me with for four months. Honestly, if I'd known there were men in the world who could turn simple e-mails and long-distance conversations into a four-month slow burn of foreplay, I'd have signed up for a pen pal years ago.

* * *

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Saturday, February 18, 2012 3:32 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Your friend_

_Bella,_

_I got an e-mail from Emmett filling me in on what happened with your friend. I'm sorry to hear she's having such a rough time. I know I've never met her, but I feel indebted to her for dragging you across the country so that your path could intersect with mine. I hope things work out okay for her._

_And you should know that I printed out that photo of you in my t-shirt. It's in the same pocket of my bag as a certain keychain. I know I've made a lot of jokes about naked pictures, but it's amazing what just one of you from the (covered) torso up does to me._

_xo,_

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Saturday, February 18, 2012 11:36 a.m. PST_

_Subject: My friend_

_Edward,_

_I think things are going to be okay with Rose, but thanks. It was apparently a little hairy there for a while – longer than I realized – but Rose is a tough cookie. I can't even begin to tell you how grateful I am for your brother's help, and his offer to fly to Seattle with her just about blew me away. But I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised – it seems like your whole family is pretty freaking amazing._

_And if you think Alice's inquisition was detailed, just wait until you meet Rosalie. Even with her own life in upheaval, she's been giving me the third degree about you before she's even here. I've been painting you as a model citizen, of course, and leaving out the parts that make you sound like a hornball. ;)_

_Confession: I badgered Alice into sending me a photo of you from her iPhone. I look at it far more often than is probably normal. And just the other day, one of my coworkers looked at my car keys and said, "Who's Edward?"_

_xo,_

_Bella_

. . .

_Subject: _

_From: Emmett Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Saturday, February 18, 2012 6:35 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Travel Itinerary_

_Hi Bella,_

_Rosalie and I will be arriving at Sea-Tac at 11:35 a.m. on Monday. As Rosalie's cell phone was in Royce's name, we are going to pick her up a pay-as-you-go phone en route to the airport. She said to tell you she'll call you as soon as she has it so that you have the number. She's doing amazingly fine, all things considered. If you need to get ahold of either of us, please don't hesitate to call my cell number._

_I look forward to meeting you._

_Sincerely,_

_Emmett Cullen_

* * *

While the comparison was so off as to be nearly laughable, it was one I couldn't help making as I stood fidgeting in the arrivals area of Sea-Tac Airport. The level of traffic was low even for a Monday, and for a pretty decently-sized airport, it felt almost dead. It was a far cry from the bustling, crowded insanity of O'Hare, and yet my mind steadfastly refused to stay away from the memories of a different airport terminal in a different part of the country. I checked the time on my phone again before glancing up at the Arrivals board to my left; Rose's plane had landed, but I had yet to see her familiar blonde mane of hair appear in the area beyond the security checkpoint.

"Probably deplaning," came Jake's voice from my left, and I nodded without looking at him.

"Yeah."

In the two days since Rose called me in the dead of night, my life had been a flurry of activity. I had called Edward's brother, Emmett, who answered and immediately jumped into action. I didn't know whether that was his personality or a byproduct of his job, but I was immensely grateful regardless. The "short version" of the story that Rose told me was that Emmett showed up at Rose and Royce's apartment and told Royce that Rosalie was wanted for questioning in an investigation into one of her girlfriends' finances. Once he had her with him, he took her to the police station and had her call me, at which point it took very little convincing to get her to agree to fly to Seattle; Emmett offered to travel with her, saying that it would give him a chance to visit his niece and see Jasper and Alice's new home.

"There she is," Jake said suddenly, and I rose to my tiptoes to scan the line of passengers making their way in our direction. It wasn't until I spied a tall man walking beside a barely-visible blonde that I realized that it was Rosalie and, ostensibly, Emmett. A few beats later she came into view, and it wasn't until I saw her face and felt my shoulders drop in relief that I realized just how anxious I had been for her safe arrival.

"Rose!" I called, and when her ice-blue eyes found mine, I could see a relaxation in her posture that I was sure probably mirrored my own. A tired smile graced her beautiful features, and she quickened her pace slightly until she was in front of me and immediately in my arms. I hugged her as hard as I could, feeling her arms around my back, and it wasn't until I stepped back and looked at her that I realized why she looked different: she was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and carrying a green JanSport backpack. I couldn't remember a time when I'd ever seen Rosalie carrying a bag that didn't have a designer label, and in that moment I realized that my white-collar, purebred friend looked like exactly what she was: a woman on the run. "Hey, Rose," I said softly, relieved to see that despite what she was wearing and carrying, there was nothing different about her face: no bruising, no cuts, no scars. And even though she looked tired, her eyes still flashed like a prizefighter's.

"Bella?" It wasn't until he spoke that I remembered Emmett's presence at Rosalie's side, and as I tipped my face up to look at him, I was once again reminded of the word Edward had used to describe his oldest brother: "hulking."

"Hi, Emmett. Nice to meet you. Sorry it's not under better circumstances."

He shook his head and offered me a small smile. Dimples like Jasper's appeared in his cheeks, and his blue eyes were the same as Jasper's as well; there was very little similarity to Edward at all, and I found myself marginally disappointed. "Nice to meet you, too. Between my siblings and Rose, I feel like I know you already."

I glanced at Rose, who was rather obviously biting back a smile. "Great." The mere thought of the impression that their combined stories could have bred was nearly enough to make me cringe. "Oh, Emmett, this is my friend Jake. He's with the Seattle PD."

The two men exchanged handshakes as I looped my arm around Rose. "Let's get your bags and we'll head home."

"Emmett has a bag," she said with a shrug. "I don't have anything besides this."

I swallowed as I internally berated myself. Rosalie Hale just stepped off a four-hour flight with a backpack almost identical to the one I carried through the halls of Forks High School, and yet the part of me that wasn't thinking still expected that she'd be carting the Louis Vuitton luggage set that her bridesmaids had been coveting in New York. "Right. Okay. Well, then…let's just go home."

Thirty minutes later, Rose and I were seated at my small kitchen table sipping tea while she gave me a rough sketch of what had happened in the weeks leading up to her exodus from Chicago. Emmett had left almost immediately with Jake to file some protection order paperwork with the Seattle PD in the unlikely event that Royce figured out where Rosalie was and opted to follow her to the West Coast, after which Jake was going to drop him at his brother's house.

"Rose, why didn't you say anything in New York?"

She shrugged, tracing the lip of her mug with the pad of her left middle finger. I noted as I watched the movement that her ring finger was bare. "At first it was just…Royce being Royce. Focused on work, intense, distracted. It was all just…normal. Until it wasn't. But Bella, I swear, I didn't wait around long. I gave it just enough time to realize that it was something more than I was prepared to handle before I left." She paused and chewed her lip, the gesture so at odds with the Rose I'd known for years that it was almost more shocking than the circumstances surrounding her arrival. Finally, she released her lip and met my eyes. "I don't want to be my mother."

I frowned. "What?" I knew Rosalie's dad was kind of an asshole, but I'd never heard anything about him beating her mother.

Correctly interpreting my confusion, Rose shook her head. "No, not like that. Just…my mother was always more like one of his acquisitions than his wife. And it was like…as soon as Royce put a ring on my finger, he stopped trying. He felt like he had me, like I wasn't going anywhere. Like he had control. And the need for control over his professional life has always been something that drove him, but lately… I refuse to be something he tries to control."

I nodded, at once relieved and proud that despite whatever she'd been through, Rosalie hadn't lost her fight. "Do you really think he's sick?"

She sighed. "I don't know. He just seemed…off. But then I noticed he hasn't been taking his medication – he's been on anti-anxiety meds for a few years now – and I don't know how much of it is just stress and heightened anxiety and how much of it might be…more. But he won't entertain any of those possibilities, and I just…I feel awful for leaving him if he is sick, but I know what road he's on and where it leads. It's the road that put my mother in rehab, and the road that put my uncle behind bars. I don't want that life." Suddenly her eyes grew fierce. "I won't be a victim." She glanced to where her green bag sat inside the back door. "Even if I do have to carry around a JanSport backpack."

At that, I laughed. "Hey, don't knock the JanSport. If Charlie hadn't bought me a North Face backpack for Christmas last year, I'd still be rocking my purple one."

"Oh, Bella. My eternal project." She smiled, but after a moment it faded. "Thank you for letting me stay here."

I shook my head. "Rose, stay as long as you want to."

"Angela?" she asked, and I shook my head.

"Totally fine with it. Spends a lot of nights at her boyfriend's, anyway."

She nodded before cupping her hands around her mug. "Thank you," she said again, and as we sat in companionable silence, I was content to enjoy the simple fact of my friend's safety and presence.

* * *

Over the course of the week that followed, life was a whirlwind of helping Rose replace virtually all of her belongings, getting her settled in our home, working, and e-mailing Edward. Emmett was able to take a few days of work-related travel time and tack on a few days of personal leave in order to facilitate Rose's relocation to Seattle and to visit his family. He kept tabs on what was going on back in Chicago, and according to his partner, Royce had shown up at the station thirty-six hours later demanding to know where his fiancée was. When he was informed that Rosalie had taken out an order of protection against him, he stormed out in a fury. Given that Rose had left her phone behind, she had no way of knowing if her friends or family were trying to reach her, but my very listed phone number had yet to ring with any incoming calls from a Chicago area code.

If Rose was upset or hurt by her family's apparent disregard for her well-being, she opted not to show it; instead, she immersed herself in acquiring a basic wardrobe and updating the resume she hadn't bothered with since Royce told her two years ago that he would "prefer" if she didn't work.

"Seattle or Chicago?" I asked as I lowered myself to the kitchen table beside where she was listing her academic and professional accomplishments on a yellow legal pad while Angela scooped coffee grounds into a filter behind us.

"I don't know," she said simply. "I like Chicago. It's my home. It's my city. A part of me feels like if I run, I'm letting him win." She shrugged. "But I like Seattle. It's nice. I could have friends here."

"You _do_ have friends here," Angela offered from the other side of the kitchen, and I tossed her a grateful smile over my shoulder.

Rosalie mirrored my smile as she scribbled something out. "I guess I'll just start looking both places and see what turns up. I'm not really tied to anywhere at the moment. It's sort of…liberating."

I nodded. If there was one thing I'd wish for my friend in her new life, it would be exactly that: freedom. As the word pinged around in my brain, I began to hum and, after a few bars, Rose looked up at me, one perfectly-shaped eyebrow arching.

"McCartney? You're singing me McCartney?"

I smirked. "Wow, Rose. I'm impressed that you even knew it. You've upgraded from just listening to Top 40 hits?"

"I could make a very pointed joke here about your apparent newfound affinity for patriotic songs, but really the joke is so obvious as to be beneath me."

At that, I cracked up. "Oh, Rose. I've missed your bitchy ass."

"Likewise, sister. So tell me more about this guy."

I thanked Angela as she set a mug down in front of me, and I looped my fingers through the handle as my palm cradled the warm porcelain. "What do you want to know?"

"Oh, I don't know. Everything?"

I smiled, even as a flush threatened to start at the back of my neck. "Honestly, Rose, I don't even know where to start. It's sort of…unconventional."

"Unconventional how?"

"Like…it feels so _real_, but when I try to put words to it, it sounds so…clichéd. Or cheesy. Or…something." I took a sip of my coffee. "I feel like if I talk about him, I sound like a swoony teenager."

"Um, hello? I just ditched my fiancé in some plot that sounds like I stole it right from a Lifetime movie. I could use something a little more on the swoony end of the spectrum."

I laughed, relieved once again at how well Rose was handling the virtual overhaul of her life. "Fair enough."

"So…you met at O'Hare."

"Yeah." I gave her a brief rundown of the eight or so hours Edward and I spent together in the departures terminal, her smile widening with every detail.

"And now?"

"What?"

"Now you e-mail?"

"Yeah. We e-mail. He sent me flowers. We chatted online once."

"Oh, Bella."

"What?"

"I had forgotten about your tendency to downplay big stuff like this. It's sort of adorable, and it totally reminds me of your dad."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

She gazed at me intently for a minute, taking a sip of her coffee but keeping her blue eyes trained on me over the rim of her coffee mug. Returning it to the table, she licked her lips.

"You love him, don't you?"

"Rosalie, I spent less than a day with him."

She shrugs. "Doesn't matter." I chewed on the inside of my cheek before taking another sip of my coffee. "It's okay, you know. To love him even though you're still getting to know him. It doesn't make it clichéd or cheesy or whatever else you're worried it makes it."

"I don't know," I said finally, the visceral awareness of the thrill I felt every time I heard from him taunting me from the edges of my mind. "I mean, how do you know?"

She considered me for a moment. "What if something happened and he didn't come home?" At her words, my heart began to race and a knot of something that tasted like panic formed at the back of my throat. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. "I think you know."

* * *

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Wednesday, February 22, 2012 5:01 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Checking in_

_Bella,_

_Please tell Rosalie that I have a unit of men trained in hand-to-hand combat at my disposal, and in just over a month's time I'd be happy to utilize their particular skill set to unburden your friend's (hopefully former) fiancé of his limbs. Just say the word._

_xo,_

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Wednesday, February 22, 2012 6:36 p.m. PST_

_Subject: And they say chivalry is dead_

_Edward,_

_Thank you for the offer. If Rosalie had shown up with any physical evidence of Royce's temper, I'd have been far too tempted to give you the green light. As luck would have it, she's always been a no-bullshit kind of girl, and she didn't stick around long enough for things to escalate to that level. Thank God._

_I do have to tell you, however, that your willingness to figuratively ride in on a white horse is doing things to me for which my feminist role models would certainly revoke my Girl Power card. Is it April yet?_

_xo,_

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Thursday, February 23, 2012 7:29 p.m. PST_

_Subject: The horse_

_Bella,_

_Forgive me for saying so, but there are certainly parts of me that could be described as…"horse-like." And rest assured that I'm not talking about my hair._

_xo,_

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Friday, February 24, 2012 6:12 a.m. PST_

_Subject: The jockey_

_Edward,_

_Which parts of you, specifically?_

_And that's convenient, as I've been told in the past that I'm a pretty good rider._

_xo,_

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Friday, February 24, 2012 9:45 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Countdown_

_Bella,_

_Okay, I don't know whether I'm more turned on at the visual, or jealous at the implication that you've…"ridden"…someone else. ... Turned on. Definitely more turned on._

_April is thirty-eight days away. In case we were keeping track._

_xo,_

_Edward  
_

* * *

"Bella?" It was the first time since he hired me that I had ever heard Lou call me anything but "Swan," and I wasn't sure whether to feel pleased or terrified about why that might be.

I swallowed a mouthful of lettuce. "Yeah?"

"Could I see you for a moment, please?"

"Sure." I pushed my plastic takeout tray of salad to one side and grabbed my pen and notebook, as much to have something to fiddle with as to take notes, before following Lou into his office. In an uncharacteristic show of chivalry, he waited for me to step inside before pushing the door closed behind me.

"Have a seat," he offered, gesturing toward the pair of chairs across from his desk as he lowered himself into his own chair. "Swan," he began, and the return of my usual moniker gave me a brief moment of respite from the anxiety that was crawling up my spine.

"Skip?"

A wry smile touched his lips briefly before vanishing again, and he sighed. "Knew it was a damn mistake to give you that photo spread," he muttered, and the unease upgraded to an all-out, steamrolling panic.

"What? What happened? Did I get it wrong?" I tried desperately to think back to the photos that they'd selected to run, tried to remember if there had been something insensitive or overly graphic or otherwise offensive, but I was coming up short, and chicken Caesar salad was doing unpleasant cartwheels in my stomach.

Lou shook his head and sighed again. "No, Swan, you didn't get it wrong. You got it absolutely, perfectly right."

I frowned. "I don't understand."

The small smile that finally graced his features was almost sad. "Told you I was going to lose you over this." Off my silence, he picked up what appeared to be a hard copy of an e-mail and waved it over the expanse of his chronically cluttered desk. "_The Nation _wants your photos."

"I'm sorry?"

"The magazine. _The Nation_. You've heard of it, yes?"

"Of course I have."

"Good. Well, they want to buy the rights to your photos."

"Seriously?" He glared at me, and I winced. "Sorry. Uh, really?"

"Really. Technically they're mine to sell, but I wanted to check with you, though I know you're not dumb enough to have a problem with that."

"Not at all."

"Fantastic. So. This is the part where I tell you that you probably won't be working here much longer."

I felt a maelstrom of emotions in that moment, not the least of which was shock, but Lou's words colored them with confusion. "I still don't understand…lose me?"

"Oh, Swan. You're big-time. Knew it when you moseyed on in here with your little portfolio. You're on the radar now, kiddo. The big boys will snatch you up in no time."

"Lou, I—"

He interrupted me by holding up the palm of his hand in the space between us. "Don't. You've got big talent, and this is a small show. Nothing wrong with it, I've spent most of my life here, but big talent belongs on a bigger stage than I can give you, kid. Just don't forget me when you've got a Pulitzer in your bookcase, okay?" I nodded dumbly and he did the same before his trademark scowl reappeared on his face. "One more thing."

"Okay."

"The press convention next week?"

"Yeah."

"I submitted your photos for the feature photography category in the press association awards, and you're a finalist."

"What?"

He shot me a look. "Please don't make me repeat myself again."

"Sorry."

"You got plans March 10?"

I shrugged. While April loomed large on my horizon, March was really nothing more than the wait I'd have to endure to get there. "No."

"Okay. Well, I assume you've got something…appropriately girly to wear to a shindig?"

"I could probably scrounge something up."

"Okay. Good. Now I don't have to go. You can take a friend. Date. Whomever. We have two places reserved at the awards dinner."

I arched an eyebrow. "Wait. Shouldn't someone else more…I don't know…senior go?"

"Listen, kid. You're probably going to win. Your photos just got picked up by a national political magazine. Go. Elbow-rub. Schmooze. And don't order the salmon."

I clicked the cap of my pen as my knee bounced. "Okay."

"Okay." He scooted himself closer to his desk and slid his glasses back to his nose as he picked up a manila folder. "Now—"

"I know, I know," I cut him off as I rose from my chair. "Get the hell out of your office."

"Exactly."

"Thank you, Lou."

"I'm still expecting a shot of that Girl Scout troop on deadline, Swan. You ain't exactly with Reuters _yet_."

"You got it, Skip."

As I slipped from his office, I would have sworn the old bastard smiled.

I took one hour to catch up on e-mail and another two to upload, sort, and delete photos from my previous three assignments, fielding intermittent phone calls from the photo editor, copy desk, and one from Jake to check in on Rose and to extend another invitation to accompany him back to Forks. I turned him down gently and listened to him talk cautiously but optimistically about his third date with the assistant DA before beginning to pack up my stuff and shut it down for the day. Just as I was logging out of the computer network, my cell phone rang.

"Congratufreakinglations!" The voice in my earpiece was a tinny screech, and I'd have had a hard time placing it if I didn't know only one person capable of producing such a sound or have caller ID.

"Alice?"

"Oh, sorry. Yes, it's Alice. Bella, congratulations!"

"Uh, thank you. How—"

"Emmett was dropping off a copy of the protection order paperwork to Rose when she was on the phone with you, and he overheard her say congratulations, so when she got off the phone he asked – yes, Sophie, you can have one – her what the congratulations were for and she told him – in the fridge, baby – that your photos got picked up by some major magazine and – use a napkin, Soph – so I just had to call to tell you congratulations!"

"Wow. Thank you."

"We should go out and celebrate!"

"I'm not sure—"

"Jasper and I are dying for a night out, and his boss has a teenage daughter who babysits – Sophie, _NAPKIN_ – so you can't say no because we haven't been out of this house since we moved into it and I'm going NUTS."

"Okay. Well, uh, let me talk to Rose?"

"Sure. But she's in. I already talked to her."

"Wow. Alice, has anyone ever told you you're a force of nature?"

"Well, Edward. But he calls me lots of things."

At this, I laughed. "Okay. Well, I'm heading home in about an hour. Call you then?"

"Great! Oh my God, I'm so excited."

I laughed as I ended the call and was struck not for the first time by the pleasant realization of how full my life was these days. It seemed too good to be true that a chance meeting with a stranger in an airport would not only lead me to a man I could wind up loving, but might also lead me to a group of friends and family that I otherwise may never have known. In the few weeks I'd known Alice and Jasper and the week I'd known Emmett, they had gelled so apparently effortlessly with the life I'd once had that it seemed we were destined to become friends. I once heard someone say that déjà vu was a sign you were on the right track; in my case, it seemed that the almost seamless interlocking of puzzle pieces was my clue. In my case, of course, the one that was missing was Edward, and as luck would have it, his piece was a pretty big one that belonged right in the middle.

After returning home to dump my camera equipment and change and after extracting a promise from Rose that she was up for – and, in fact, looking forward to – a night out, Angela and Rosalie and I made our way to Carne, a small tapas bar near where Jasper and Alice's house was located. As we stepped inside the bar-slash-restaurant and shrugged out of our coats, I scanned the space quickly, eventually spying Alice and Jasper at an elevated booth in the rear corner.

"There," I said to Rose, pointing, and led the way through the maze of tables.

"Hey, Bella!" Alice said brightly, gesturing toward her margarita. "These are _really_ good. I like this place already."

I laughed. "Fantastic. Alice, Jasper, this is my roommate, Angela, and my friend, Rosalie. Ang, Rose, this is Alice and Jasper."

As they all exchanged hellos, I scanned the space and spotted Emmett hanging over the bar. "What's Emmett doing?"

"Getting some menus," Jasper replied. "We thought we'd order some tapas to share." As he spoke, he slid out of the booth. "What are you ladies drinking?" His eyes were on me, so I nodded in the direction of Alice's glass.

"I'll have one of those, frozen and salted."

"Got it. Ladies?"

"Make it two," Rose said.  
"Three," Angela added, and Jasper suggested a pitcher before heading off in Emmett's direction. I slid in beside Alice as Angela and Rose scooted along the opposite side of the booth. Thirty minutes, two rounds of margaritas, and two platters of Tex-Mex egg rolls and shrimp skewers later, Alice was regaling us with details of how Sophie was trying to "trade" bedrooms with her parents for the master when my phone vibrated against my thigh. Digging it out of the pocket of my jeans, I glanced at the display, frowning at the unfamiliar number. Imagining Royce dialing everyone in Rose's phone book, I tilted the screen toward Emmett, who sat beside me.

"That's not a Chicago area code, right?" I murmured.

He frowned and shook his head, so I shrugged and swiped the screen to answer the call. "Hello?"

"Bella?" The voice was slightly garbled and the connection wasn't entirely clear, but my heart hitched in my chest and my stomach flipped all the same.

"Yes?"

"Bella, it's Edward."

"Edward!" I all but yelped, grinning maniacally at the margarita glass in front of me. "Hey! Wow, hi! How are you?"

Over the hiss of nearly seven thousand miles of distance, I could hear him chuckle. "I'm good. Wow, it's really good to hear your voice."

If my grin could have stretched any wider, it would have. "It's _really_ good to hear your voice, too." I glanced around, and five pairs of eyes were trained on me in varying degrees of smug surprise.

"I can't talk long, but I wanted to give you a call."

"I'm really glad you did," I said, moving to slide out of the booth and pointing to my phone as the heads attached to those five pairs of eyes bobbed in unison. Once Emmett made space for me to get out, I made my way back toward the front of the bar and stepped outside the door, cringing as a blast of cold air hit me in the face and sobered me slightly. "Really glad," I said again as I leaned against the brick façade of the building.

"I, uh, I'm not actually sure what to say. I just wanted to hear you. Your e-mails are wonderful, but I missed your voice."

"I know the feeling."

"How have you been?"

"I've been good. I miss you." I felt silly saying it, and I rushed to continue. "I know that's probably stupid."

"If it's stupid, then it's a table for two. I miss you, too, Bella."

I could feel the delight bubbling up even as the cool brick chilled me through my too-thin top. "I really like your family."

His laugh overpowered the buzz of the phone connection, and I grinned at my speaker. "Oh, jeez. I can only imagine what Alice is saying to you."

"Well, she told me you're exceptionally picky about who you date."

"She's right. Little did I know that all this time that I was holding out for the best."

"Charmer," I replied, but his words had set my insides somersaulting.

"Truth," he answered, and despite the fact that his voice on the other end of a phone was the closest we'd been in more than a month, he suddenly felt achingly far away. As if he could read my mind, he spoke again. "The first week of April."

"What?"

"That's when I'm scheduled to be home. Around the fifth."

Despite the pleasant buzz in my brain, I was able to do the math. "That's, like, five weeks from now!"

"I'll be counting every second, Bella. I don't even care how lame that makes me sound."

"Not lame at all," I told him. "Table for two."

"Great." He paused again, and I listened to him breathe. "How's Rosalie?"

"Good. Your brother's been really great."

At that, I heard him exhale. "God, I've never been so jealous of my brothers before now. It kills me that they're spending time with you and I'm not."

"You're just lucky they don't have a footbridge story in their arsenal, otherwise you might have some competition there, Ace."

"I'm really starting to worry at your apparent inability to retain details. The girl in that story plunged over a railing and had a sliver of wood embedded in her ass cheek."

"I retain plenty of details, thank you very much. I remember exactly what your tongue tastes like."

His inhale was audible. "Jesus, Bella."

"Okay, I may be slightly drunk."

"Drunk?"

"I'm having margaritas. With your brothers and Alice and Rose. And my roommate."

He chuckled. "I was right. Inebriated you: definitely adorable. And now I'm even more jealous of my stupid brothers."

"They're really quite charming. Like you. Is that something your mother taught you?"

This time, his laugh was outright. "Oh, Bella. We're only charming on first impressions."

"Ohhhh, that's right. You're the one whose deviance is all hidden away at first."

He was silent for a beat before he spoke again, his voice suddenly softer. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything."

"Me too." I listened to his breaths for a beat before he spoke again. "Bella, I remember, too. What you taste like. Just the thought of it drives me crazy."

At his breathy confession, my pulse began to race and I licked my lips. "God, it's such a shame you're not here right now."

"Why's that?"

"Do you like country music?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Country music?"

"Not particularly, no. Why?"

"There's a Joe Nichols song, 'Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.' And I've been drinking margaritas."

His groan was audible over the hum of the phone line, and something that felt like triumph rocketed through me. "You're absolutely killing me."

"If it makes you feel any better, me too."

"Damn it, I have to go." His voice was soft, and desperation was an abrupt, unwelcome interloper into my short-lived joy as sudden thoughts of Seth and Sue and statistics flashed through my mind, sobering me even more than the cold air had.

"Edward, be careful, okay? Promise."

"I promise."

"You know the old saying: 'Billy, don't be a hero.'"

He laughed. "Bella, my particular brand of heroics are why they pay me the big bucks."

I gazed unseeingly out at the street. "Be a hero who comes home. Okay?"

"Deal."

"Okay."

"I'm going to be really sad when I hang up the phone. I just want you to know that."

"I'm going to be really sad when you hang up the phone, too."

"Naked pictures would ease the sting," he said, and I was instantly grateful for the lightness in his voice.

"I'm not quite _that _drunk."

"Pity."

I laughed, and there was a brief moment of quiet buzzing before his voice came through the speaker again. "Bye, Bella."

"Bye, Edward."

Long after the call had ended and the buzz had vanished from my ear, I stood cradling my phone, a different kind of buzz working its way through the rest of me.

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Tuesday, February 28, 2012 4:12 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Your voice_

_Bella,_

_I just want you to know that hearing your voice made yesterday the best day I've had since January 3. And January 3 was the best day I've had…well, possibly ever._

_I'm looking for flights home to Chicago by way of Seattle, but they're alarmingly hard to come by. Apparently the recent economic crunch has caused airlines to eliminate 2,000-mile detours. A rather unfortunate end result._

_xo,_

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Tuesday, February 28, 2012 3:39 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Detours_

_Edward,_

_Someone once told me I'd like Chicago. I'm thinking about taking a trip; there are direct flights from Seattle to O'Hare, you know._

_xo,_

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen _

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Wednesday, February 29, 2012 11:22 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Sharing walls_

_Bella,_

_I forfeited the lease on my apartment prior to this tour, and as such moved most of my things into storage and spent my last trip home staying with my parents. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not be sharing a wall with them the first time I get you in a bed and hear the sounds you make when you come apart. Which I'll be doing in roughly thirty-four days. _

_xo,_

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Thursday, March 1, 2012 8:43 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Sweet slumber_

_Edward,_

_I had a dream that I woke up this morning with your fingers inside of me. When I resurfaced from the depths of that dream, consciousness was a real bummer._

_xo,_

_Bella_


	6. Chapter 6: Landing

**Departures**

**Summary: "**Your words are going to be the death of me. Major Edward Cullen: death by sexual frustration compounded by the effects of overheating."

**Rating:** M

**Acknowledgement: **I don't know many betas who would take kindly to ridiculous DMs like, "What's the plural of 'scrotum'?" HollettLA does, though. For this, and for so many other reasons, she rocks.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Landing**

Freedom. I'm free. The logjam of rubberneckers who couldn't find the willpower to drive past the pile-up without slowing to a crawl has finally given way to an open road, and I am flying as I glance at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes. I have ten minutes until Edward's plane is scheduled to touch down on the runway at Sea-Tac, and the desire to be standing at that arrivals area when he comes striding through it is all-consuming. If Charlie were in the passenger seat, he'd be reading me the riot act for pushing the speed limit far, far, _far_ beyond the realm of safe, never mind legal. A tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers that it would be ridiculously tragic if I wrecked my truck on the way to the airport when Edward has managed to sidestep amateur bombs buried along roadsides for four months, but that little whisper of logic does little to lighten my pressure on the accelerator.

I swerve around a Cadillac that is – irritatingly – cruising along at the exact speed limit and shoot the wily oldster driving it a dirty look as I breeze by, though my glare is probably nothing but a blur to her, cataracts notwithstanding. In the right-hand lane, an eighteen-wheeler is approaching my exit, and I do a quick estimation of whether or not there exists enough space for me to speed past and cut in front, or if I'm going to be required to slow down and merge into the lane behind it.

_Fuck it. No guts, no glory._

I gun the engine, a final hurrah to shoot across the finish line, and cut in front of the tractor-trailer just in time to yank the wheel to the right, narrowly making it into the exit lane and earning a blast of the big rig's horn for my troubles.

"I know, I know; I'm an asshole," I mutter as I brake gently so as not to flip my truck on the curved ramp. Another glance at the dashboard clock: nine minutes.

I just might make it.

* * *

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Thursday, March 1, 2012 8:43 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Sweet slumber_

_Edward,_

_I had a dream that I woke up this morning with your fingers inside of me. When I resurfaced from the depths of that dream, consciousness was a real bummer._

_xo,_

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Friday, March 2, 2012 5:13 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Is it hot out here?_

_Bella,_

_What is it that the social media kids are saying these days? Something along the lines of "askhlknbkdgj"?_

_I have written and deleted about a thousand responses to your e-mail, and I'm still sitting here staring at a blinking cursor. I'm overheated, and for once it has nothing to do with the desert temperatures. I'm hard, and it has everything to do with you. I want to make your dream a reality. And in thirty-two days, I plan to. (But who's counting?)_

_xo,_

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Saturday, March 3, 2012 9:02 a.m. PST_

_Subject: REM cycles_

_Edward,_

_I had another dream last night. This time, cool metal was dragging against the bare skin in the very center of my chest, sliding up and down the valley between my breasts. That metal was your dog tags, which were skimming along my body in time with the thrusting of yours._

_Thirty-one days. Bet your ass I'm counting. _

_xo,_

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Saturday, March 3, 2012 3:59 p.m. PST_

_Subject: _

_Bella,_

_Your words are going to be the death of me. Major Edward Cullen: death by sexual frustration compounded by the effects of overheating. In lieu of flowers, please send photos._

…_No, really. Please send photos._

_xo,_

_Edward_

* * *

"Wow, Bella, you look gorgeous."

"Really?" I touched the loose curls that I'd managed to sweep into a small knot at the nape of my neck that – miraculously – looked more like a chignon and less like a bird's nest.

"Really." Rosalie's encouragement quelled my bubbling insecurity at least somewhat. I'm never comfortable when I'm dolled up; wearing makeup still makes me feel like a little girl playing dress-up, and getting honest-to-god dolled up in a cocktail dress and donning heels is even farther from my comfort zone. "Wait. Give me your phone."

I frowned, even as I dug it out of my tiny, beaded clutch purse. "Why?"

"A photo. We need to take a photo. Edward should see you dressed up. If he was interested when you were wearing your awful 'traveling jeans,' he'll cream himself over this one."

"Wait. I don't want to take one by myself. I'll look awkward. I'll take one while I'm there."

"With your date?" she teased. "Honestly, Bella, soldiers aren't like contact lenses; you can't just substitute one in for another."

I rolled my eyes. "Seth is the reason I'm even invited to be there."

"Hope Edward's not a jealous man," she shrugged, handing my phone back to me, and I laughed.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled my truck into the driveway of the Clearwaters' house and killed the engine. After stepping down from the cab of my truck exceedingly carefully in deference to the heels I was wearing, I looked up to see Seth and Sue standing on the porch; Seth's right hand gripped the handle of a cane, and his left was free to wave at me.

"Hey, Bella." He grinned, and I took a moment to give him an exaggerated head-to-toe.

"Wow, Seth. I wish I could tell you for a fact that there were going to be cute single girls at this thing tonight, because you look great." And he did. Decked out in his Army dress uniform, he looked pressed and polished and handsome. Affixed to his chest were a number of small bars in varying colors; the only one I recognized was the bar of solid purple that denoted a Purple Heart.

"Thanks," he said, his grin widening.

"And you graduated from the crutches!" I added, gesturing toward the cane.

"Yeah. Now I look less like a cripple and more like a grandpa," he said, but the smile was still on his face.

"Can I help you down?" I asked, gesturing toward the stairs, but he shook his head.

"Nah, I can get it."

As he made his way slowly down the porch steps, gripping his cane in one hand and the railing in the other, I smiled. "Just as well. I'm dangerous in heels, not only to myself but to everyone around me."

Sue laughed and I glanced up to where she stood near the lip of the top step, watching Seth descend, one arm out as if poised to catch him if he fell. "Curfew?" I asked, and she chuckled.

"Funny," Seth muttered as he arrived on the walkway, even as the smile didn't falter.

"Oh, hey, Sue? Would you mind taking a picture with my phone?"

Sue beamed. "Absolutely, Bella."

One slightly awkward pose and a cheesy photo later, I returned my phone to my purse and faced Seth. "Ready?"

"Ready," he agreed, offering Sue a wave before clambering back into the cab of my truck.

On the ten-minute drive to the Hilton Seattle, Seth caught me up on his physical therapy, and I filled him in to the best of my ability on what to expect from the evening's event.

"And your boyfriend doesn't mind that you asked me along?" he asked.

I shrugged. "He figures he outranks you, so…" I tossed him a sideways smile and he beamed in return.

"Excellent point. Also, he knows bombs. It's Self-Preservation 101 not to mess with a guy like that."

I chuckled as I pulled my truck into the hotel entrance and outright laughed at the look of consternation on the face of the valet at the sight of my behemoth antique. "These guys always love me," I told Seth, and he chuckled as I shifted the truck into Park and grabbed my purse. "Ready?"

Once we were inside, I gestured toward a small alcove off the lobby. "I'm just going to hit the ladies' room, okay?"

"Can I get you a drink?" he offered, and I gave him a skeptical look, to which he responded with an eye-roll.

"I'm twenty-one, I swear. I don't have a curfew, and I can certainly get us drinks."

I chuckled. "Fair enough. I'm driving, though; I'll just have a Diet Coke."

"You got it."

I pointed toward the big ballroom in the far rear corner of the large atrium. "Dinner's in there; I'll meet you by the bar."

Seth nodded and wandered off in the direction I had indicated as I slipped into the ladies' room. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I was relieved to see that my DIY hairstyle was holding up rather nicely. I plopped my clutch onto the counter and dug out the small tube of lip gloss for a reapplication before extricating my phone and tapping my e-mail app. When I saw Edward's name in the sender column with a new message, my chest flipped in a way that was by now becoming familiar.

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Saturday, March 10, 2012 5:58 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Good luck_

_Bella,_

_I just wanted to wish you good luck this evening. Though I haven't seen the pictures, I can only imagine that they are astoundingly perfect. The one photo of yours that I have seen was, after all, breathtaking in its beauty, though that could have had more to do with the subject matter than what was going on behind the lens. Tough to call…I'll need more empirical evidence to make a firm conclusion, I'm afraid. _

_Seriously though, knock 'em dead tonight, and tell PFC Clearwater to keep his hands to himself (direct order). I'll be thinking of you. (And counting: twenty-six days.)_

_xo,_

_Edward_

. . .

Grinning, I typed out a quick reply.

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Friday, March 10, 2012 6:47 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Photo requested_

_Edward,_

_Thank you for the good luck wishes. I'm attaching another photo, as I believe you have been requesting another shot of me for some time. I hope you enjoy this one. _

_You'll be thrilled to hear that "PFC Clearwater" is far less handsy than my past dates to formal events. (That said, seeing him in his dress uniform only makes me want to see YOU in YOURS – though not nearly as badly as I want to see you in absolutely nothing.)_

_xo,_

_Bella_

. . .

As I made my way through the relatively dense crowd of people toward the bar, I was surprised not only by the number of attendees but the age: from a quick scan, I figured I was probably the youngest person in attendance by a good decade. Seth was going to look like a mascot. When I found him standing to one side of the bar, drinks in hands and his cane propped against his hip, I smiled.

"Thanks."

He nodded and held up his glass. "Cheers. To very talented photographers."

I flushed but clinked glasses with him all the same. I was just about to put voice to my age gap observation when a voice floated over my shoulder.

"Isabella Swan?"

"Bella," I responded as I turned, as much out of habit as anything, and the woman standing before me nodded. "Charlotte Kelly, I'm the photo editor for the _Seattle Times_."

"Yes," I said immediately, nodding with the enthusiasm of a dashboard accessory. "Yes, of course. Hi. It's nice to meet you." I bit my lip in an attempt to curb my babbling as I looked her over; she was sleek and coiffed and looked like a deadly combination of Lois Lane and Hillary Rodham Clinton.

"Likewise. Congratulations, of course."

"Oh. Thank you." I shifted slightly on the diamond-patterned carpet. "My editor nominated me."

"Oh, no." Charlotte shook her head. "Not for the award – though, of course, congratulations on that as well – no, I was referring to _The Nation._ That's quite a compliment."

"Oh! Yes, thanks. I, um, still quite can't believe it, to be perfectly honest with you."

She smiled. "Things move fast in this business," she said. "Well, they're either moving fast or they're not moving at all. You're certainly on the right side of that coin."

"Thank you," I said again, and she took a sip from her wineglass as she studied me.

"So how did you wind up working for Lou?"

"I did an internship there in college," I said. "He hired me when I graduated."

"He always did have a good eye for talent," she said, then chuckled. "Though that sounds awfully conceited of me."

"You worked for Lou?"

She grinned. "Three years," she said. "Right out of college."

"Wow," I said stupidly. "I had no idea."

"It was a long time ago," she said easily. "So, what's next for you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, if I know Lou, he's already ushering you out the door."

I laughed. "He is."

"That's one of the best things about him: he pushes people to move on when they need him to. I could have stayed there forever, I think."

I nodded as I looked into my own glass. "I know what you mean."

"So?" she pressed, and I frowned.

"I'm not really sure."

"Do you enjoy feature photography?"

I chewed my lip. "I do, actually. This was my first time shooting something of this magnitude, but I did enjoy it. But I also have a significant interest in news photography." My conversation with Edward over diner pancakes flashed through my mind, and I bit back a smile as I met her gaze. "I've always been interested in working in conflict zones."

Her eyebrows climbed as she nodded slowly. "Is that so?"

I could feel the sweat gathering at the small of my back, though I pushed the creeping anxiety away as I gripped my glass. "Maybe. Someday."

She considered me for another beat before placing her wineglass on a tray stand and lifting the chain of her clutch purse off her shoulder. "Do you have a card?" she asked, and I silently cursed myself for forgetting to bring any.

"No," I admitted, feeling suddenly like the novice I was. Waving her hand dismissively, Charlotte snapped her purse open and rummaged inside for a moment before handing me her own card with a pen.

"Write your number on the back of that. I may have a contact for you."

Placing my nearly-full glass next to her nearly-empty one, I clicked the pen and printed my name and cell phone number on the back of the ivory square before handing it back to her. "Great," she said, glancing at it before stowing it back in a pocket of her bag and retrieving her glass. As she opened her mouth to say something else, a sharp squeal cut through the room and a sea of heads turned to look at the podium, behind which a small woman had appeared, encouraging the crowd of people to find their seats for dinner. "I'll be in touch," Charlotte said in parting as she vanished into the crowd.

As Seth and I moved through the throng and found our seats at our assigned table, I placed my purse beside my plate and took a beat to admire the table itself. Covered in a cream-colored linen tablecloth with a white underlay, the table was set with glassware and china that gleamed in the low light, and a circle of tea light candles flickered around the centerpiece: an explosion of ivory roses, white hydrangeas, and a third blush-colored bloom I couldn't identify. Newspapers may have been on a downward slide, but they could apparently still throw a party. Just as I moved to pull my chair out from beneath the table, Seth's hand appeared on its backrest.

"There's absolutely no way I'm going to let a superior officer hear that I let his girlfriend pull out her own chair," he said with a smile, and I beamed in response.

"Thank you." Lowering myself, I scooted my chair slightly to the side to give Seth enough room to maneuver into his own seat before I draped my shawl over the back of my chair and smiled at the other diners at our table. In that moment, I could understand why Lou hadn't been thrilled at the prospect of attending; my beloved editor was certainly more at home in an Irish pub than at a swanky dinner gala like this one. After introductions were made around the table, we all tucked into our salad course and I made small talk with the education reporter to my right while Seth talked about the Seahawks' uneven season with the sports reporter to his left.

Midway through my filet mignon – which was delicious, and certainly more palatable than the filet of salmon that the education reporter was dubiously poking at with the prongs of her fork – a woman appeared behind the podium at the front of the room and tapped lightly on the head of the mic. "Please continue enjoying your meals, everyone," she said. "We'd like to go ahead and begin with the awards presentation while we eat, so if you could just direct your focus up here as you dine, we'll get this show on the road."

As the din of conversation dulled to a low buzz, the woman – who by this time I had identified as the president of the Press Association – began presenting awards. As we continued eating, she led the awards program through news, education, government, sports, editorial, business, arts, crime, and feature writing and named the reporter of the year and rookie reporter of the year. It wasn't until the catering staff had come around and whisked empty dinner plates away and replaced them with dessert plates of cheesecake that the photography categories began; following the spot news and sports categories, it was time for features.

"The nominees in this year's feature photography category have produced some truly astounding work. From a NICU nurse to an injured veteran fighting to reclaim a normal daily routine, the submissions in this category show a wide range of human experience and speak to the depth of human emotion." As she stepped to the side, the first photo appeared on the screen behind her.

"From _The Peninsula Crier_, 'The Night Shift': A photo essay on one graveyard shift in the life of a neonatal nurse. Photographer, Ken Brandt."

There was a round of applause and another photo appeared on the screen: a pair of kids in a hospital bed. "From _The Tacoma Ledger_, 'Big Brother': A moving documentation of a teenage boy who donates half his liver to save his younger sister. Photographer, Sally Reese."

More applause, and another picture: this time, a sea of bald heads taken from above, the people arranged so that they formed a heart. "From _The Northwest Chronicle_, 'The Bald and the Beautiful': A portrait of an entire class of high school students who shaved their heads in support of their principal, who was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Photographer, Jim Patterson." Another round of clapping as the screen dissolved to black.

This time, the photo that appeared was mine, and seeing it up there in the wake of all the others made something unfamiliar begin to churn in my stomach. "From _Seattle Weekly_, 'Home Again': A photo essay on a soldier's battle to navigate his daily life back on American soil after being injured in combat in Afghanistan. Photographer, Isabella Swan." A cold sweat had formed along my spine again, and I could feel beads gathering at the small of my back as another sea of applause echoed in my ears. I ran my suddenly-clammy hands down my thighs as I watched the photo loom on the screen for another beat before the Press Association's logo reappeared. Seth, misreading my evidently obvious reaction for nerves, offered me an encouraging smile. I tried valiantly to return it, but my stomach was rolling and my heart and pulse were racing and my breathing was coming in short, choppy gasps.

"And the winner…" She paused as she glanced down at the paper in front of her. "Ken Brandt, for 'The Night Shift.'"

At the congratulatory applause, relief was a tsunami that rolled over me; my breathing regulated itself and my pulse gradually slowed, and Seth offered me a sympathetic smile as he clapped. I smiled back at him in reassurance, grateful that this time it wasn't impossible to do so, and leaned toward him slightly. "Thank God," I whispered. "I _hate_ having to stand up in front of people."

He grinned in response and we both returned our focus to the front of the room to see the photographer from _The Peninsula Crier _accept his plaque.

* * *

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Monday, March 12, 2012 11:37 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Tease_

_Bella,_

_When I saw the .JPEG icon attached to that e-mail, I will admit that I made sure no one was standing near me when I opened it. I'd claim to be disappointed that you were clothed, but you looked so stunningly beautiful that it would be a lie. That dress…there are no words for what that dress did to me. Perhaps you shouldn't send me naked pictures, after all; if a photo of you in formalwear has this kind of effect, I'm not sure I'd survive something more…titillating._

_That's not to say, though, that I don't wish I hadn't been there to help you unzip it at the end of the night._

_xo,_

_Edward_

. . .

"Tough break, Swan." I glanced up from my computer monitor to see Lou's head hovering above it.

I leaned back in my chair and smiled up at him. "Relieved, actually." When he frowned down at me, I shrugged. "I really liked the ones that won. Would have felt like a fraud."

He shook his head. "You might be too earnest for this business, kid."

I laughed. "Good call on the salmon, by the way."

He shuddered. "That's a mistake you only make once." He scratched the top of his head. "Well." He glanced around as if searching for an escape, and I bit back a smile.

"Hey, Skip?"

"Swan?"

The grin won. "Get the hell outta my office."

His lips twitched even as he attempted to glower at me. "No respect," he muttered as he turned.

"That's Rodney Dangerfield's line, you know!" I called after him, and I heard Newton snicker from his desk on the other side of the room. I grinned at him and returned my focus to my computer monitor just as my cell phone rang.

"_Seattle Weekly_, Bella Swan," I answered.

"Hello, Miss Swan, this is Brian Kohler, with _WorldView_ magazine."

"Oh. Yes?"

"Hello. My wife told me that she spoke to you at the Press Association dinner the other night – Charlotte Kelly?"

"Oh! Right, yes! I mean, yes. She did."

"Yes. Well. She mentioned that you might be looking to move on in your career path and that you indicated an interest in conflict photography."

"Yes," I said, my heart thudding unevenly in my chest. I swallowed. "Yes, that's right."

"She spoke very highly of your work, as did Lou. And I understand that some photos of yours have already been picked up by _The Nation._"

"Um, yes." God, I sounded like an idiot. "That's correct." Not much better.

"Well, the reason for my call is that I have a senior photographer on staff who is going to be retiring next month. I'll be promoting one of the junior photographers, and as such will be looking to fill an entry-level photography slot on my staff. I was wondering if you'd be interested."

"I'm sorry?"

"Dale Sweeney – he's the junior photographer who will be promoted – is heading out for a ten-day trip to Gaza next month, and if you think you might be interested in the job, we can arrange for you to tail him to see if it would be a good fit." While I was searching for a response, he continued. "Some people sign up for the job and get there and realize they can't handle it. I try to give new guys the chance to try it out before they commit. The timing on this is actually working out very well in that regard. If it doesn't work out, you're not locked into a contract. If it does, though, we'll sign you as soon as you get back."

If anyone in the newsroom was paying any attention to me at that moment, I probably looked like a goldfish. My e-mail inbox pinged with an incoming message, and my mind replayed his words. _Next month_.

I swallowed. "When would we be leaving?" I asked, glancing at the desk calendar half-hidden by my keyboard.

"April 9th," he replied. "If you don't have a passport, that'll give you enough time to have one expedited."

"I have a passport," I said, even as I tried to work out the logistics in my brain. "Okay," I said after a moment. "Thank you, I'd, um, I'd like to give it a try, I think. I do have some things to sort out on my end, though; can I give you a tentative yes while I figure a few things out and call you at the start of next week?"

"Absolutely. I look forward to hearing from you, Bella."

"Thank you. And thank you again, Mr. Kohler. This is…well, this is a really amazing opportunity. Thank you."

"My pleasure. Speak to you next week."

As I replaced the handset in its cradle, a maelstrom of thoughts spun around in my mind.

_Ten days in Gaza._

_Photographing a war zone._

_My career._

_Edward._

_Edward._

_Edward._

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Wednesday, March 14, 2012 9:42 p.m. PST_

_Subject: News_

_Edward,_

_There's something I have to tell you, and I'm nervous to tell you. _

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Thursday, March 15, 2012 7:33 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: News_

_Bella,_

_You can tell me anything. (Although if what you're about to tell me involves some other handsy loser, you could lessen the blow with a photo. You know the kind.)_

_Seriously, though, Bella. You can tell me anything. I promise._

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Thursday, March 15, 2012 3:12 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Opportunity_

_Edward,_

_It's kind of a long story, but at the awards dinner I met a woman who is the photo editor for the _Seattle Times_ and her husband is a photo editor with _WorldView_ magazine and one of his photographers is retiring next month and he offered to let me tail one of his veteran photographers who is going to Gaza for a week to see if I'd be interested in joining their photography staff. _

_And I would be leaving April 9th. We would only have four days together._

_And I don't know how to feel about any of it._

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Friday, March 16, 2012 11:11 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Congratulations_

_Oh, Bella._

_That's amazing; you should feel PROUD. After all, I'm proud of you. That's a remarkable accomplishment. _

_I've said it before, though it bears repeating: the idea of you somewhere like that makes me uneasy and anxious and sort of terrified. That said, one of the very first things you told me when we met was what you wanted to do with your life, and this sounds like a pretty obvious gateway to that career._

_Bella, you've waited four months for me to come back. I can wait a week for you. I'd wait as long as you asked me to._

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Saturday, March 17, 2012 10:47 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Congratulations_

_Edward,_

_But what if it's not just a week? What if I like it? What if I still want to do it? What if you get home just in time for me to leave? Are you going to go on another tour of duty? What if we're still doing THIS a year from now?_

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Sunday, March 18, 2012 3:21 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Congratulations_

_Bella,_

_No, I'm not coming back here. This is my last tour. After this, I'll be staying Stateside (with the exception, of course, of the trip I hope to take to London with you someday). But that's not to say YOU have to stay on American soil._

_And Bella, if all we're destined to have are interludes and layovers, we'll find a way to make them enough. You have my word._

_xo,_

_Edward_

* * *

Over the course of that week, in addition to my e-mails with Edward, I spoke to everyone else in my life about this recent turn of events. Charlie and Jake were both firmly in the "hell no" camp, though their reasons were entirely safety-related. Rosalie was in the "hell yes" camp, though I think her stubbornness that I not allow my professional life to be derailed was as much about her doing that exact thing at Royce's behest as it was about my own career. Alice and Jasper sat balanced on the fence; it seemed they were unwilling to voice their reservations in case it appeared like they were doing so for Edward's benefit, but they seemed equally unwilling to cheerlead my going. All in all, I was on my own, and as the deadline by which I had promised to contact Brian Kohler drew near, my heart and my brain were telling me two entirely opposing things, and only fifty percent of it had anything to do with a certain Army officer.

By Monday morning, I was a mess. I knew what I was going to decide, but I couldn't convince my heart that the decision was made, and I kept flip-flopping even as I ultimately came back to the same point at which I'd started. After the third time I picked up my phone to call Brian Kohler and returned it without pressing a single digit, I rolled my neck in frustration. I _knew_ what I was going to say, so why the hell was it so hard to just _say _it?

_Because you don't want to_, a tiny voice suggested. And even though it was partially right, it was also partially wrong. I didn't want to, but at the same time I _did_ want to. Even though I was feeling differently about it now, in the wake of the photos of Seth and the awards dinner and the e-mails with Edward, there was still a part of me that just felt like I _had_ to.

I was going to go. Even if I didn't end up making my life doing it, at least I would have done it once. At least I would know what I was walking away from before I walked away from it. At least I would know whether or not the sudden anxiety about this particular career path, the newfound unease about the concept of spending my professional life chasing tragedy, was simply a case of nerves or, as I was beginning to suspect, was something more fundamental. At least I would _know._

Picking up the phone for a fourth time, I forced myself to punch out the numbers of Brian Kohler's work phone. I listened to it ring once, twice, three times before a voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Kohler?"

"Yes?"

"Hi, it's Bella Swan."

"Bella, hello. Please, call me Brian."

"Okay. Brian, then."

"Well, whaddaya say?"

"I'm in."

* * *

_From: Charlie Swan_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Tuesday, March 20, 2012_

_Subject: Grounded_

_Bella,_

_You're officially grounded. You are not allowed to leave the parameters of the continental United States, young lady. I'll have Jake hog-tie you and drag you back to Forks, where I will not hesitate to handcuff you to the refrigerator. I'm not kidding._

_Dad_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Charlie Swan_

_Sent: Wednesday, March 21, 2012_

_Subject: Grounded? Really?_

_Dad,_

_It'll be okay. I promise. It's only ten days, and I'll be under the tutelage of a seasoned photojournalist who's been doing this sort of thing for years. Trust me. This is something I have to do, Dad. I'll call you this weekend._

_Love you,_

_Bella_

. . .

I spent the week that followed attempting to prepare for a trip to Gaza. How does one even prepare for a trip to Gaza? In my case, it was a combination of talking my father down from his daily panic attacks, buying desert-friendly clothing and accessories that would respect the culture into which I would be thrust, and investing a significant chunk of my savings account into purchasing camera accessories that I would no longer have access to given that I was quitting my job with the _Weekly_.

And, of course, e-mailing Edward. I was grateful for his unwavering support, and his enthusiasm for my professional advancement was nearly contagious. We opted not to spend too large a chunk of our electronic communication dwelling on the fact that I was ditching him for ten days upon his return to traipse off into an entirely different war zone and instead pacified ourselves by revving each other up with suggestive messages about what the four days we _did_ have together would entail.

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Thursday, March 29, 2012 7:02 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Laundry list_

_Bella,_

_Okay, here's the part where I come across like a typical guy. Consider yourself forewarned._

_There are a whole host of things I want to do with you when I'm in your ZIP code. I want to take you out to dinner. I want to buy tickets to a movie neither of us particularly cares about seeing and make out with you in a darkened movie theater while we pretend to watch it. I want to find the next Pearl Jam concert that's anywhere near either of our hometowns and buy the best tickets we can get. I want to hang out with you and my brother and his wife and barbeque and drink beers and act like we're just two couples who have known each other for decades. I want to do so many things with you that constitute a "normal" relationship._

_But one of my favorite things about our "conversations" has always been the level of honesty, so here's the honest truth: as much as I want to do all of those things – and I do – I really just want to lose myself in a cocoon of sheets – and you – for a few days and resurface into the sunlight, blinking like a newborn, spent and exhausted and blissed out on the taste of your mouth and the feel of your body. I want to sequester us away in your bedroom until I know every inch of you, every freckle on your skin, what you sound like when you're breathless, and what my name sounds like on your lips when you explode._

_On a scale of one to ten, how do you feel about that, with one being total disapproval and ten being a definite green light?_

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: March 31, 2012 10:23 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Firsts_

_Edward,_

_On a scale of one to ten? About a nine thousand._

_While all of the rest of it sounds lovely, I've eaten in most of the restaurants, I've seen all the movies, and I have Pearl Jam's complete discography. _

_I've never been naked beneath you. But I will be in five days._

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: April 1, 2012 7:17 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Creativity_

_Bella,_

_Just beneath? I hope you're not underestimating my creativity. Four days._

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: April 2, 2012 8:48 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Any way you want it_

_Edward,_

_Beneath, on top of, beside, in front of…you name it. Three._

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: April 3, 2012 10:40 a.m. PST _

_Subject: Tomorrow_

_Bella,_

_This time tomorrow, I'll be on a plane home. Granted, I have that pesky little overnight layover in Chicago to endure, but on the heels of that, I'll be on my way to you. _

_I can't believe it's almost here. Thank God._

_Get ready, Bella Swan. I'm going to rock your world. Or, at the very least, your headboard. Two._

_xo,_

_Edward_

* * *

"Son of a _BITCH!_" I yelped, and once again glanced sheepishly up at the aesthetician. "Sorry. Again," I muttered, and she offered me a tight smile in return before dipping her wand in the vat of wax near her elbow. I was going to kill Rosalie. That is, if I ever regained the ability to walk. When she suggested a spa day to "prepare" for Edward's arrival the following day, visions of massages and pedicures and facials danced tantalizingly around my mind and led me to nod enthusiastically in agreement, excited at the prospect of a day of pampered relaxation. What Rosalie conveniently neglected to mention was that she was very literal in her interpretation of the "preparation" required for my reunion with Edward, and as such had determined that the grooming of my nether regions fell under the umbrella of her oversight. At that moment, as I lay reclined and virtually spread-eagled on a table that could ostensibly have been used for far less torturous procedures – the aforementioned massage, for example – I tried valiantly to think of anything but the burning that was overtaking the expanse of skin beneath my belly button.

"Fuck," I hissed as another strip of paper was ripped away from my body, stinging as if it had taken a few layers of skin with it. I lifted my head from the table and glanced down, alarmed to see that the nearly-bare skin between my legs was the color of a boiled lobster. "Sexy," I muttered, letting my head drop back in defeat as another stripe of hot wax was applied to my crotch area. Gritting my teeth, I glared at the overhead lights and tried to anticipate the moment when this would pay off. Sometimes being a girl just really, really sucked.

Twenty minutes that felt like a lifetime later, I followed Rosalie out the front door of the salon and into the parking lot. Despite my underwear and jeans, I felt alarmingly naked and oddly exposed to the elements.

"Stop walking like John Wayne," she said.

"My crotch is on _fire_, Rosalie," I hissed back.

"I can't believe you've never had a wax," she said for what had to be the sixth time.

"Why am I going to pay some sadistic beautician seventy bucks to torture me when a Bic razor costs two dollars?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're hopeless."

"I'm in _pain_."

"Beauty is pain," she said. "But believe me when I tell you that it will pay off."

I glared at her. "Excuse me?"

"It heightens sensation." She grinned evilly. "And Edward will love it."

Even the idea of Edward being in a position to appreciate that part of me lit a fire of an entirely different type as I slid gingerly into the driver's side of my truck. "Yeah, well, he better."

"Let's stop by the store."

"Okay. What do you need?"

"_I_ don't need anything," she said. "Angela and I are peacing out and you're going to hole yourself up in your apartment with your new boy-toy for four days of sex, and you have virtually nothing in your cabinets or fridge. Time to stock up on provisions for when you come up for air."

I opened my mouth to object but closed it almost instantly. If I had my way, Rosalie's prediction would be entirely accurate: four days of sex with breaks only for food. That sounded pretty freaking perfect, actually.

As we made our way up and down the aisles of the grocery store, Rose threw random items into the cart – some simple snack foods and some ingredients for actual cooked meals.  
"Boy's been eating Army food for four months," she offered in explanation. "Maybe while he's recharging his batteries you should make him some spaghetti or something."

Once my cart was filled with a variety of food staples, we made our way to the back of the store so that I could pick up more shampoo.

"What else do you need?" Rose asked after I had tossed it in with the rest of my purchases. As I tried to think of anything we'd missed, she paused in front of the small display of prophylactics beneath the shuttered pharmacy window and glanced over at me. "Are you on the pill or anything?"

I sighed. "I went back on it, but I'm not covered for another week."

"Bummer."

"Yeah," I agreed as I stared at the colorful display.

"You probably want to pick up a box of these, then."

"Isn't that his job?"

"You should always be prepared."

"Rose, he's basically implied that he's going to want to get naked within twenty minutes of deplaning; I'm guessing he'll think to pack a box of rubbers."

"You think he's going to be able to ditch Mommy Dearest for any part of the twelve hours he's home in Chicago to pop out and buy some Trojans?" I had a sudden flash of Edward buying condoms at one of the newsstands in the airport, and it took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to laugh out loud when I thought back to our game of hypotheticals envisioning that exact scenario. At my prolonged silence, Rosalie sighed. "Listen, it can't hurt to at least be prepared. Imagine if you finally got him home and then you couldn't do anything about it until one of you ran to Rite Aid."

It had been awhile since I'd had to buy condoms, and as I stared at the display, I was taken aback by the sheer number of varieties available. Even limiting it to the brand with which I was familiar did little to help; Trojan had an assortment of at least twenty different boxes hanging from the wall in front of me.

"Fire and Ice?" I read aloud, gaping at the two-tone box. "Seriously?"

"I've heard good things," she said absently as she scanned the rack, and I frowned at the display.

"I'm pretty sure if my junk felt like ice and then felt immediately burning hot in the minutes after sex, I'd flip the fuck out."

"Maybe you should just stick with the standard," she said, plucking a box from its hanger. "Although…" She picked up another box and held them up between us for my consideration. "Do you want thin or ribbed?"

I could feel the flush working its way up the back of my neck as another shopper wandered by, and I wanted suddenly and desperately to end this part of the program as quickly as possible. "Either."

"Well, according to you, he's probably going to have a bit of a short fuse – ha, get it? – so maybe we should opt for your pleasure over his. At least give the boy a fighting chance." She dumped the ribbed condoms into the basket and returned the ultra-thin ones to the display.

"A fighting chance?" I repeated, shuffling the items in my basket to cover up the box with the brand name recognized the world over.

"At making you come," she clarified, and I lost the battle with the blush.

"Okay, I think we're done here."

"There's a very real possibility that there's a 'That's what she said' joke coming down the pike in the next twenty-four hours," she said, and I bumped her with the corner of my cart.

"Shut up."

"Seriously. Stop walking like John Wayne."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

* * *

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Wednesday, April 4, 2012 6:31 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Like a kid on Christmas_

_Edward,_

_I can't believe it's almost here. I really can't believe that by this time tomorrow, you'll be in Chicago and I'll be able to just…call you. Like it's no big deal. And then, the day after that, you'll be here. With me. ONE. _

_Bella_

. . .

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Thursday, April 5, 2012 7:39 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Home sweet Chicago_

_Bella,_

_I'm home. I just landed in Chicago and am about to make my way to baggage claim at O'Hare. You should know that being in this airport again is doing strange things to me. And by strange, I mean wonderful. Believe me when I tell you that if it didn't mean my mother would just fly to Seattle and interrupt our reunion – for which I'd much prefer not to have an audience, particularly one that includes the woman who gave birth to me – I'd have flown directly to you._

_It's amazing how we've been counting down months, weeks, days, and yet a matter of hours can feel like an eternity. I'll call you after my mother stops crying. Less than one…_

_xo,_

_Edward_

. . .

"Hi."

His voice was soft and crystal clear, and I could have replayed the memory of that single syllable over and over in my mind for days, but the beauty of having Edward in the same country was that his words were now limitless. As were the minutes on my cell phone plan.

"Hi."

"You sound beautiful."

"So do you."

"You also sound close."

"Not nearly close enough."

"Tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"I'm being greedy. Now that I can call you whenever I want, I just want to keep you on the phone until I board my plane tomorrow."

"Actually, I'm the one feeling sort of greedy. You just got home and you're ditching your family to come see me."

"Trust me, Bella, they're just happy that I'm done traipsing around the desert. Anywhere within the continental United States and they're ecstatic."

I laughed. "I know the feeling."

"I can't wait to see you," he murmured.

"I know that feeling, too."

This time when he spoke, his voice was a low rumble. "I can't wait to kiss you again."

Heat licked at my body. "Me too."

"I can't believe that this is more torturous than the past three months."

"What?"

"I so want to describe in vivid detail everything I'm going to do to you and hear you come apart on the other end of the phone, but honestly, the first time I hear it, I want to see it."

My chuckle was breathless. "Yeah. That's another reason I never sent you the photo you wanted. I didn't want the first time you saw me naked to be with bad lighting and in only two dimensions."

There was a slight pause before his voice came through the speaker again. "Fourteen hours."

"Yeah."

"I should probably get off the phone," he said, his voice soft. "It's pretty late."

"You do need to rest," I agreed, injecting as much suggestion as possible into my voice.

"Why?" he asked teasingly. "Do you have big plans for our reunion?"

"Of course," I replied. "The Woodland Park Zoo is _amazing._"

"Tease," he laughed.

"Takes one to know one."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

My heart soared. "See you tomorrow," I echoed. "I'll be waiting at the terminal."

"In that case, Sea-Tac will officially surpass O'Hare in my estimation as the greatest airport in the world."

I laughed. "Goodnight, Edward."

"Goodnight, Bella."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading. _

_Thanks also to Nicffwhisperer, who rec'ed "Departures" in the Fic of the Week poll over at The Lemonade Stand! If you're looking for something good to read, check it out; there are lots of great stories nominated._


	7. Chapter 7: Arrivals

**Departures**

**Summary: **"Don't stop. Please, God, don't stop."

**Rating: **M (I mean it this time.)

**Acknowledgement:** Oh, HollettLA, how do I love thee? I can't count that high. All I know is that until you, I didn't realize that Wikipedia had a "cockblock" entry.

_A/N: While this story has nothing to do with that subject, and while my little stories are insignificant in the grand scheme of things, I'd like to acknowledge the grieving families in Connecticut and, indeed, our grieving nation. As Aaron Sorkin once penned, "The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight." _

**For all the parents with broken hearts, and most especially for the ones in our own fandom family. xo**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Arrivals**

In my mind, I imagined my reunion with Edward happening so many different ways. In one, I launched myself at him and wrapped my arms and legs around his waist like an octopus and planted my lips on his and kissed him silly before he even had the chance to say hello. In another, we stood staring at each other, grinning like idiots, until he finally pulled me into a hug. In a third, it was awkward as we tried to acclimate to being together in the flesh again, tried to assimilate the strangers we'd been four months ago with the online almost-lovers we'd become in the interim. In all of these scenarios, however, one thing remained the same: Edward, green-eyed and gorgeous, looking like he had looked four months ago.

In a million years, I never could have imagined that he'd look _better._

* * *

It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to sit patiently at the barrier gate that blocks the entrance to Sea-Tac's parking lot and wait for it to climb high enough for my truck to clear it. As soon as it's up I step on the accelerator, leaving a stripe of rubber behind me as I gun it into the lot and swing my beloved rust bucket into the first space I find. Stashing the parking ticket behind the visor, I all but fall out of the truck and slam the door behind me, dashing toward the airport and slinging my purse across my body.

Since I cleared the traffic backup along the 509 and hit the exit ramp, I hadn't had a spare moment to even pull up Edward's flight details on my phone, so I have no idea whether he has landed yet or not; a quick glance at my watch shows that his plane was scheduled to arrive two minutes ago. When I reach the sliding glass doors that lead into the airport, I stand impatiently as they slide open with the relative speed of a glacier; once inside, I sprint for the nearest arrivals' monitor.

_Chicago, Chicago, Chicago._

I scan the board until my eyes find it: _Chicago, American, 1529, 2:40 p.m., A9…ARRIVED._

I spin and immediately slam into a large man in a flannel coat that reminds me of my dad's.

"Shit, God, I'm sorry. So sorry," I babble as I side-step him and make a mad dash for the security checkpoint, which is the closest I will be able to get to Edward's gate until he emerges from beyond it. I scan the faces of everyone I pass, but I can tell as I breeze by that he isn't among them. I nearly steamroll a woman ambling along beside a toddler and feel like the world's biggest jerk as I toss an "Oh, God, sorry" over my shoulder but don't even slow down.

By the time I reach the point of no passage, I am a gasping, windswept mess, and I silently thank my lucky stars that I didn't opt to ditch my truck on the highway and make a run for it. I'd most certainly be passed out somewhere along the shoulder at this point. I attempt to regulate my breathing and simultaneously try to ignore the amused looks of the other welcoming committees waiting with me. I swallow and try to breathe through my nose, wondering idly if my exertion is showing on my face. I am instantly glad that I opted to wear short sleeves in deference to the unseasonably warm and uncharacteristically sunny weather; while I may look like hell, I am not dripping sweat. As my gasping pants slowly downgrade to wheezing breaths, I survey the steady stream of passengers emerging in the space beyond the security checkpoint, and the panic at my delay gives way to a familiar buzz of anticipation.

This is it. Four months of getting-to-know-you, hundreds of e-mails of how-do-you-do, have led me to this moment, and as I shift my weight on the industrial carpet, the maelstrom of emotion swirls through me with the subtleness of a riptide. Relief. Anticipation. Nervousness. Ecstasy. Joy. As more people appear and hug their waiting loved ones, I grow increasingly desperate to see Edward's face moving toward me. Will he look the same? Will his hair be longer? Will he be somehow different than I imagine, different than the picture eight hours and a tome of e-mails have painted? Will he find _me_ different, or otherwise less than he expected? Apprehension creeps in, but as has become habit, I recite his words silently in my mind, using them to quell my mounting anxiety.

_That was it. That moment._

_You're the most familiar stranger I've ever met, and I feel like I could talk to you until I run out of breath._

_Beautiful. Like, really beautiful. The kind of beautiful where you look at a girl in an airport terminal and even though you check to make sure there are no rings on any meaningful fingers, you figure she MUST have a boyfriend because how could she not?_

_I just want you to know that hearing your voice made yesterday the best day I've had since January 3. And January 3 was the best day I've had…well, possibly ever._

_And Bella, if all we're destined to have are interludes and layovers, we'll find a way to make them enough. You have my word._

And then, just as my heart has finally begun to beat at an almost-normal rhythm, it hitches and begins to gallop again. Because there, behind a sea of bobbing heads, is a head of messy auburn hair. And, as the tall woman in front of that head steps to one side, there he is. Edward. A beat after I spot him, his eyes find mine, and the grin that splits his face is so brilliant that it's nearly blinding. And in this moment, blinding or not, nothing in the world could make me look away from him. As his strides lengthen and carry him closer to me with every step, I take a moment to register my surprise, because even with all of the possible reunion scenarios I'd run through in my mind, what I never took the time to think about was that, since he had stopped in Chicago to see his family on his way to me, he wouldn't be wearing his fatigues. While the backpack slung over his shoulder is camouflage, the rest of him is very much civilian: a heather gray t-shirt stretches across his chest, worn jeans hang from his narrow hips, and Puma sneakers peek out from beneath the hems.

His long legs bring him closer and closer until he draws to a halt in front of me, so close that our chests nearly touch when we inhale. He gazes at me for a moment before his smile splits and his lips form a word.

"Hi."

I return his grin. "Hi, stranger," I breathe, and the words are barely out of my mouth when he leans in and presses his forehead to mine, his bright green eyes falling closed. Even so close that he's blurry, he's breathtaking. "You're here," I murmur.

"I'm here," he confirms, and I let my eyes fall closed as his arms band around my waist. Oblivious to the stream of passengers parting as they continue to walk past us, I take a few moments to enjoy the simple reality of our breath mingling in the shared space between us before I pull back. His green eyes slide open and he smiles down at me, his eyes soft and bright. His hair is longer than it was in January, and I smile at the realization that my previous guess was right: with more length, it's even more unruly. The back of his neck is slightly browned by the sun, and he has faint tan lines on his temples from the arms of his sunglasses. The sparse hair on his forearms is bleached nearly white from the sun.

One hand reappears from behind me to run knuckles along the line of my jaw, and one corner of his mouth quirks slightly upward as his eyes flick down to my mouth. I see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows before leaning in slightly, and when the distance between our mouths is down to millimeters, he suddenly reels to one side, knocked off-balance by the colossal carry-on looped over the shoulder of a passing traveler.

I shoot daggers at the woman's retreating back and Edward laughs lowly. "Probably not the ideal place for that," he murmurs, his hand trailing down my arm to find mine. "This, though."

"This is good," I agree, interlacing our fingers. "Do you have more bags?"

"Just one," he replies, and we make our way toward the baggage carousel, every fiber of my being focused on the warmth of our connected palms. Holding hands hasn't done this much to me since I was a preteen.

"How was your flight?"

"Too long," he says with a sidelong glance and small smile. "But pretty much everything between January and now has seemed to drag."

"Tell me about it."

We manage to keep up the small talk as he retrieves his small wheeled suitcase from the carousel – thankfully one of the first to appear – and we make our way to the parking lot. As we approach my truck, Edward chuckles. "These are your wheels?"

"Don't hate on the truck," I warn him. "Murphy's a classic."

"Clearly," he says, and at my threatening look, he shakes his head. "No, it's actually sort of perfect for you somehow."

"I'm not quite sure how to take that," I admit, digging my keys out of my purse. Just as I retrieve them and make a move to walk around to the driver's side, I feel long fingers encircle my wrist.

"Wait," Edward says, and as I turn to face him, he presses me up against the side of my truck. "Bella," he breathes, and before I can say anything, his mouth covers mine, and all of the moments between January and now that I worried I had overestimated the memory of his kiss or blown it out of proportion are erased as his warm, soft lips move against mine. Large hands cradle my face and his fingertips push back into my hair as he opens his mouth and I do the same, feeling the warmth of his breath just before his tongue finds mine. Arousal, swift and sudden, begins to pulse through me; my hands lift to the back of his neck, fingers weaving into his soft hair and nails scratching slightly at his scalp. He whimpers and deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against my own as one hand finds the back of my neck and the other runs down my body to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. I echo his whimper, and we make out against the door of my truck until he pulls back slightly, downgrading from an all-out snogfest to soft, lingering, open-mouthed kisses.

When I protest, he laughs into my mouth before pulling back and mimicking his posture from earlier, pressing his forehead against mine. This time is even better, however, because the rest of our bodies stay pressed together from chest to thighs. "God, I shouldn't have started this here."

"Why not?" I challenge, even as I'm marveling at the realization that "weak-kneed" is more than just an expression.

"Because there are parts of me that want to finish it here."

"If I had a backseat, I might not be entirely averse to that idea," I admit, pulling away slightly.

He gazes down at me, affection and arousal swirling in his eyes, and the look is enough to make me feel like my skin is aflame, despite the cool breeze.

"Oh, Bella. I'm going to need a lot more room to maneuver than the backseat of any car could provide." I laugh, but the excitement taking over my body in its most elemental levels makes it sound more like a gasp.

"I bet we could find a footbridge relatively nearby," I suggest, and he laughs, pressing a close-mouthed kiss to my temple.

"How far is it to your apartment?" he murmurs, his lips pressing against the skin of my neck and making my entire body pebble into gooseflesh. Unfortunately, his words temper my arousal somewhat as realization creeps in.

"Oh. Um. About that."

"I will pay your roommates any amount of money necessary to make themselves scarce for a few hours at the very least," he says, entirely undeterred as his lips find the soft skin just above the neckline of my shirt.

"No, no, it's not that. They're…um…elsewhere. For a few days."

"Excellent." He registers my unease, though, and pulls back to look into my face. "Bella, what is it?"

"Alice and Jasper."

He frowns. "What?"

"Okay, so this is the part where I tell you that Alice and Jasper planned a little 'Welcome Home' party for you."

His eyes narrow. "When?"

"Well, now."

"No," he says simply, and I grin at the petulance on his face even though it is a pretty exact replica of what I'm feeling at the prospect of making small talk for the next few hours instead of rolling around on my clean sheets with him.

"No?" He shakes his head and releases me to fold his arms, and I bite back a laugh. "And what reasoning are we going to give Alice and Jasper?" He shrugs, clearly unconcerned at what we tell his brother and sister-in-law. "They're barbequing," I try. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Really?"

"Not for food," he clarifies, and my arousal spikes once again.

"They already told Sophie you're coming," I admit, and defeat is visible in the slump of his shoulders and the way his arms uncross to dangle at his sides. And in that moment, when he realizes he can't disappoint his niece no matter how badly he might want to figuratively throw me over his shoulder and drag me into his cave and claim me, I'm pretty sure that I'm in love with Edward Cullen.

He sighs. "They get one hour," he says, holding up a long finger between us, and I take a brief moment to add his fingers to the dirty to-do list that has been steadily growing in my mind over the past few days.

"One hour," I agree, nodding, and gasp as he steps into me again.

"Bella, one hour, I mean it. Then I'm taking you home and making my very," – here, he presses a kiss to my mouth – "very," – another kiss – "_very_ dishonorable intentions clear."

"Deal."

* * *

Despite his dismay at Alice and Jasper's unintentional albeit rather spectacular cockblock, the grin on Edward's face when he sees them and Sophie warms me from the inside out.

"Unca Edward!" his niece hollers, launching herself at him, and I admire his biceps as he catches her and swings her into the air before depositing her on his hip.

"Hiya, butterbean," he greets, pressing a kiss to her rounded cheek with an exaggerated smack. "You grew!"

"Mommy had to buy me new shoes because my feet are growing so fast," Sophie informs him, and he nods gravely as he checks out her miniature red Converse hi-tops.

"Good choice," he says, flicking a glance at Alice, who rolls her eyes.

"She wasn't having any of the patent leather Mary Janes," she says with a sigh, and Edward grins before kissing Sophie's cheek again.

"That's my girl." Sophie wriggles and he puts her down before Alice steps forward and pulls him into a hug.

"Hey, little brother." Edward grins as he bear-hugs her before pulling back and tousling her artfully styled hair. "I still hate it when you do that," Alice grouses, though her smile remains, and Edward grins back.

"I still hate it when you call me 'little brother'," he replies, and Jasper steps into the space Alice has vacated to pull Edward into a man-hug.

"Hey, little brother," he greets, the smile evident in his voice, and Edward laughs.

"You're allowed," he says, returning the hug before stepping back.

"Where's Rose?" I ask, scanning the room. Alice and Jasper graciously invited Rosalie to say with them while Edward was in town with the understanding that when I left for Gaza, they would trade places and Edward would come to stay with Alice and Jasper.

"Out on the porch manning the grill," Alice replies. "And talking on the phone."

"A job?"

Alice glances at Jasper. "Nope. Emmett."

I feel a thin thread of fear wrap itself around my heart as all of the possible implications flip through my mind. "Did something happen with Royce?"

"No," Jasper assures me. "Emmett was just…checking in."

"Oh," I say, relief replacing my short-lived anxiety. "Well, that's really nice of him."

Jasper nods. "Yeah. Emmett's a nice guy." He and Edward share a look that brings me suddenly and immediately into the loop.

"No!" My eyes bounce from Alice to Jasper before landing back on Edward. "Really?"

Alice finally shrugs. "Let's just say that Emmett expressed an interest in coming to visit us again for Easter weekend, and we can count the number of times in four years that he came to the West Coast before now on one hand with fingers to spare."

"Wow," I say, turning the information over in my mind.

"Food," Edward says suddenly, looking from his sister-in-law to his brother, whose eyebrows hitch.

"Hungry, Edward?"

"Starving," he replies, but his eyes are now on me and I remember his words from the airport parking lot.

_Not for food._

"Me too," I offer, and the grin he shoots at me is positively wicked.

Once we are all situated around the patio furniture on Alice and Jasper's back deck and Edward has been formally introduced to Rosalie, conversation turns to his last tour in Afghanistan. As he talks about his unit and some of the more entertaining stories from his months abroad, I allow my mind to drift, remembering how in one of his e-mails Edward had described wanting to do this very thing.

_I want to hang out with you and my brother and his wife and barbeque and drink beers and act like we're just two couples who have known each other for decades._

As I watch him laugh with Jasper and I watch Alice and Rosalie pay partial attention to the men while carrying on their own conversation with occasional interruptions from Sophie, I let the normalcy of the moment wash over me like a balm. The simple fact of Edward's proximity excites me even as the peace of the setting lulls me into relaxation, the only point of electricity being where his fingertips brush over the bare skin at the back of my neck. When he lowers his hand to trace feather-light touches around my kneecap, I think I might explode. His words from January float immediately to the forefront of my mind.

_I'm very adept at handling volatile materials._

Alice gets up from her chair to check the status of the burgers, and Jasper rises to peek over her shoulder before glancing back at Edward. "Hey, man, can you grab the stack of plates on the corner of the kitchen counter? These bad boys are ready."

"You got it," Edward replies, releasing my knee, and I stand up with him.

"I'll help you," I offer, following him into the kitchen while Rosalie offers the requisite oohs and aahs over the Barbie doll accessories that Sophie is organizing on the table in order by color.

As we step into the kitchen, Edward reaches for the plates but I stop him with a hand around his wrist. His eyes meet mine, confusion evident for a split second before he twists his hand to wrap his fingers around my wrist, spinning me into his body and pinning me against the edge of the counter. Any explanation I was going to offer is rendered unnecessary by the press of his mouth to mine and the firm pressure of his hands gripping my hips. I moan into his mouth as he pushes the length of his body to mine, his mouth opening and tongue flicking against my bottom lip before invading my mouth. When I rock my hips into him ever so subtly, his answering groan rockets through me, and before I am aware of it, he has lifted me onto the counter, his warm hands finding the crooks of my knees as he pulls me forward so that I am perched on the very edge of the countertop, my knees bracketing his body and his hips flush against mine.

"I'm going to explode if I don't get you alone soon," he groans as I press a kiss to the curve of his neck and then bite the soft flesh.

"Good thing you're a bomb expert," I tease, licking the skin I've just bitten, and he hisses.

"Bella, at this moment in time, I'm feeling much more volatile than any IED I've ever encountered," he murmurs, and before I can volley back, the screen door bangs.

"Whoa!" Rosalie yelps, spinning quickly but not in time to block Sophie's view of me with my legs wrapped around her uncle.

"Aunt Bella, Mommy says the counter isn't a place for sitting," she informs me, and I can feel the heat of arousal give way to the heat of embarrassment as I attempt to glide off the countertop; as I do so, sliding against Edward's torso until my feet touch the floor, I feel hardness behind the fly of his jeans and grin up at him.

"She's right, Sophie."

The child nods, clearly satisfied that the situation has been rectified, and she follows Rosalie to the fridge, from which Rose extracts a juice box and fiddles with the plastic-wrapped straw. When I return my focus to Edward's face, he's gazing down at me contemplatively. "What?" I ask after a moment, confused by his frank perusal.

"Aunt Bella?" he mimics, and I feel a sudden flush bloom in my face.

"Oh, uh, yeah, that was Alice."

As if sensing my unease, Edward presses a kiss to my temple. "I like it," he breathes into the shell of my ear, and I shiver.

"Aunt Bella?"

"Yes, Sophie?"

"Are you going to _marry_ my Unca Edward?"

At her words, the slight flush I felt escalates to a full-on, four-alarm fire, and Edward chuckles as his hand winds its way around my hip. "Hey, bug?"

"Yeah?"

"You know the boy is supposed to _ask_ the girl first, right?"

"Oh. Well, are you gonna?"

I'm looking everywhere but at Edward until I feel his index finger crook beneath my chin and turn my face to his. His eyes are serious as they roam my face, and even if there's not a question on his lips, there's a curiosity in his eyes. Scrounging up my courage, I meet his look, my own expression as open as I can make it with an audience and a swarm of hummingbirds in my stomach, and finally his green eyes go soft, crinkling at the edges as a small smile touches his lips. "You know what, Sophie? I think I just might."

* * *

The Seattle scenery slips by all but unnoticed as Edward navigates the streets and follows my directions toward my apartment. It isn't until he twists to check his blind spot that I notice the small line of silver chain peeking out from beneath the neckline of his t-shirt. Reaching a finger over, I trace it gently and unbuckle my seat belt, sliding along the bench seat to press myself as close to his side as I can.

"Dog tag?"

A slight flush stains his cheeks and I smile to myself. "Yeah." He tosses me a glance before returning his focus to the road. "After you said it, I wanted to see it."

"That can be arranged," I agree, leaning in even closer to press a kiss to the tiny hint of metal and dropping my hand to his thigh, thrilled at the heavy exhale that falls from his lips.

"Bella," he breathes, his voice tight.

"Edward."

"Bella, I said I wanted the first time I have you to be in a bed with plenty of space to move, but if you keep that up, we might not make it to a bed."

"Sorry," I say, not feeling even the slightest bit repentant, but as I move to shift back to the passenger side, his arm wraps around my shoulders.

"Don't go anywhere," he murmurs, his left hand still on the wheel. "I like you pressed up against me." He glances down at me. "But fasten your seat belt, okay?"

"Such a Boy Scout," I mutter teasingly, though I do as he asks, and I feel his chuckle.

"Eagle Scout, remember?"

"How could I forget?" I content myself with leaning into his body as he drives, enjoying the feel of his fingers tracing over my upper arm and the flexing of his thigh muscle beneath my palm whenever he steps on a pedal. After a few minutes, his hand moves from my shoulder to my neck, running the tip of his thumb over the column of it, and that seemingly innocent touch is nearly enough to make me beg him to pull the truck over, space limitations be damned. I have just about convinced myself that there is enough room on the passenger side for me to straddle him and ride him to bliss when his voice saying my name cuts through my pervy plotting.

"Bella?"

"Sorry, what?"

"Isn't this your street? Meadow?"

"Oh! Yeah! Yes, sorry. Make a right."

He glances down at my face, an amused smile on his lips as he indicates and turns. "A few minutes, Bella. Just a few more minutes." His eyes scan the row of houses. "Which one's yours?"

"Fifth one on the right," I say. "Yellow with black shutters; it's a duplex, actually." He nods, his eyes scanning the ones we pass until he spots mine, pulling my truck into the driveway and killing the engine. He turns to look at me, and his face splits into a grin. Powerless to hold my own back, I return it, and despite our desperation to fall into bed together, we sit there in the cab of my truck for a good thirty seconds just grinning at each other before he blows out a breath.

"Well? Shall we?" I nod, pushing my door open and hopping down from the cab. Slamming the door shut, I make my way to the front of the truck and Edward appears beside me, his backpack slung over one shoulder. "Lead the way," he says, the grin still plastered on his face, and I smile at my feet as we climb the stairs. As I slide my key into the lock, I feel warm lips at the top of my spinal column. "I feel like I should carry you over the threshold or something to commemorate this momentous occasion."

"With the way I'm feeling, throwing me over your shoulder would seem more fitting," I admit, relieved when the lock slides free. I push the door open and step inside, and I am hyperaware of Edward's presence as he steps inside behind me; the click of the door closing may as well be a starting gun as I abandon all restraint and spin to press my mouth to his. He returns the kiss with equal fervor, and I'm vaguely aware of the thud as his backpack slides off his shoulder and hits the floor.

"So this is my apartment," I gasp as his mouth finds the hollow of my collarbone, and he doesn't even lift his head as he spins us and presses me up against the inside of the closed door.

"Nice," he says, his tongue licking fire up the tendon along the side of my neck before his lips find mine again. His tongue is in my mouth, his kisses hot and desperate and a little reckless, and I meet him with everything I've got. His hands twist in the cotton of my shirt, and I thread my own through his hair as I press the length of my body to his. He groans and lifts me in a move reminiscent of what happened in Alice's kitchen, pinning me against the door and wrapping my legs around his waist. I can feel the promise behind the fly of his jeans, and I gasp as my head falls back against the door, my eyes staring unseeingly up at the ceiling as his mouth traces fire down my neck. His hips have begun to shallowly rock against mine, and I tilt my own in response, drawing a verbal response from him that he muffles in the hollow of my shoulder. He rocks against me for a few more beats before he manages to gasp out, "Bedroom?"

"In the back," I breathe, and he doesn't release me, instead making sure my legs are locked around him before carrying me through the living room and toward the doorway I indicate. He doesn't stop moving until his knees are pressed against the edge of my mattress, and instead of releasing me, he bends at the waist to lay me on my back before pressing himself down on top of my body. I'm all hot, quivering need and desire and _want_, and the look in his eyes tells me he feels the exact same way as he rears back to peel his shirt off over his head. As he does, I strip my own off, delighting in the way his eyes zero in on my indigo-colored lace bra and the breath falls from his lips in short pants. His eyes are back on mine as his hands find his belt, and I watch as he unbuckles it and undoes the button of his jeans, mirroring his actions as I undo my own. He lowers the zippered fly and lets the jeans fall to the floor; his erection strains against the blue striped cotton of his boxers, and my desire skyrockets. I slide my own jeans over my hips and down my legs, and his warm hands take over to pull them off my ankles, leaving me in my matching indigo lingerie. My eyes lift from the fly of his boxers to his dog tag, and I sit up to grab it in my hand. The metal is warm as I pull gently, dragging him back down on top of me, and he moans low and long as he presses his hips to mine.

"Bella," he moans, thrusting against me, and I can't quite believe that while two days ago there were seven thousand miles between us, now we're down to two thin layers of material. "God, Bella," he gasps. "I want you so badly."

"Me too," I pant, hitching my hips against his as blood roars behind my eardrums. I want to say something witty, bring the banter, but in this moment I'm nothing but a puddle of want, desperate and frenzied and aching for him to just fill my body the way he's already filled my heart.

His hand drifts down to where I'm burning for him, liquid fire and quivering flesh, and his soft, needy whimper when his hand slips beneath the band of my panties to press against my wet skin nearly undoes me. He gasps into my mouth as I rub my palm down over his stomach and slide it beneath the waistband of his boxers to take hold of his length. "Unh," he grunts as I stroke him slowly, marveling at the soft skin and the hard shaft, swiping my thumb up his erection to rub a small circle around his tip. Suddenly desperate to see that part of him, to bare our bodies as we've already bared the rest of ourselves, I push on the elastic and his boxers slide down his hips. He helps my progress, pushing them down his thighs and kicking them off before returning his hand to me as I take him in my palm again, pumping slowly and watching as a bead of fluid appears at his tip. "Don't stop," he pleads, his hips thrusting slightly as my hand slides along his length. "Please, God, don't stop."

He lowers my panties just enough to bare me to his gaze but leaves them around my thighs, too desperate to touch me to push them all the way off, and I splay my legs only as far as the lace-edged elastic will let me. The pads of his fingers find my slick, swollen flesh and make lazy circles as I stroke him, and I'm panting and gasping and pleading as his fingers dance tantalizingly along my flesh. His eyes are at once bright and dark as he looks down at me, his hips still canting against my hand, and he slides two fingers into my body as I arch up off the mattress. He matches my rhythm, fingering me as I stroke him, and just as I think I might be ready to topple over, he arches his hips away from my grasp and bends to pluck a condom from the pocket of his jeans. As he tears the wrapper, I can see evidence of myself glistening on his fingers, and on any other day I might have felt slightly embarrassed, but in this moment all it does is add to my desperation to feel him inside my body. I make quick work of my bra, dropping it over the side of the bed.

"Please," I whimper mindlessly, rubbing my thighs together, and he glances at me briefly, his eyes falling to my breasts for a beat before he returns his focus to the condom, pinching the end and rolling it over his length. He crawls back over the bed to me and drags my panties down and off my legs before pressing his tip against my opening.

"Bella, this probably won't last very—"

"I don't care," I cut him off. "We'll do slow later."

Without further hesitation, he pushes forward, and I moan at the feeling of finally, _finally_ having his body inside mine, at the delicious stretching sensation. "Edward," I breathe as he seats himself all the way in me and immediately starts to thrust. His arms flex as he props his torso up, his upper body hovering over me, and true to my imagination, the warm metal of his tags slides between my breasts, dragging along my sweat-slicked skin as he drives himself into my body. His eyes follow mine to watch, and when they return to my face, they flash with possessiveness. "That's so amazingly erotic," he breathes without missing a beat.

While I'm sure that I love him, and I'm pretty sure he loves me too, this isn't making love. This is four months of horniness, four months of foreplay, a four-month slow burn coming to a head. This is fucking, and it's the best fucking I've ever had. He is pounding into me, his erection dragging along my walls and driving me quickly up a pleasure spiral, and as I shift slightly to wrap my legs around his waist, he hits the perfect place inside of me that forces his name from my lips on a gasp.  
"There it is," he murmurs, and begins driving even harder, my headboard hitting the wall in time with his thrusts, my breasts bouncing, my body feeling well and truly possessed as he pushes us both toward our peaks.

"Wanted you so much…"

"You have me. I'm yours."

"Unh, Bella…"

"I know. Come. Come inside me."

The moan that falls from his lips is pleasure bordering on pain, and despite the thin layer of latex between us, I can feel the warm pulse of his release inside me as I shatter, grinding my hips into his and feeling my entire body tense as pleasure ricochets through every nerve ending. His name falls from my lips on a breathless whimper, and I can't make out the words he's mumbling into the crook of my neck as we both go boneless, me collapsing into the mattress and him pressing me even deeper into it.

Our racing hearts thrum against each other and our stomachs meet and retreat with every deep breath we take, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders and lock my legs around his waist, giving him a true full-body hug. Something that sounds like a purr of appreciation rumbles in his chest, and we stay connected for a few more blissful moments before he groans and lifts his head, his green eyes finding mine. "I have to…" He trails off but pulls his hips back slightly, and I can feel him slide out of me.

"Okay," I say, pressing a kiss to the end of his nose.

"Bathroom?" he asks.

"Other end of the hall," I reply, and I take the opportunity to appreciate the sight of his naked backside as he disappears from my bedroom. When he reappears, he looks like exactly what I imagine military porn must look like: muscle definition, dog tags, and still half-hard. But the slightly self-conscious way he runs his hand through his just-fucked hair is so very Edward that all of the rest of it fades into the background.

_Edward._

_I just had sex with _Edward.

_Finally._

I grin and he matches it, finishing his trek across the floor and arriving at the bedside. "Well, now that you've had your way with me, are you kicking me out, or can I stay awhile?"

I don't even pretend to think of it as I pull the covers down. "Oh, please. I'm not even close to being done with you. When I'm ready to kick you out, you'll know it."

"Good to know," he laughs, pulling the covers down slightly to slide in alongside me. Once he is settled on his side facing me, his head on my lavender pillowcase, his smile goes from teasing to soft and intimate. "Hi," he breathes, and at the tone of his voice, a warmth spreads through my chest.

"Hi," I murmur, and we gaze at each other for a few breaths before he reaches out a hand and cups my face, rubbing his thumb along the line of my jaw before tracing my lips. I press a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb, and while we haven't said the words yet, they are right there in his beautiful eyes.

"This is sort of surreal," he says finally, his hand falling to the mattress in the tiny sliver of space between our bodies, and I bring my own down on top of it and weave our fingers together. "I imagined being with you so many times in so many ways, but I never really thought about just _being _with you. Just…looking at you like this." He pushes a tendril of hair away from my cheek. "I feel like I know you so well that it seems bizarre that this is the first time I've seen you naked."

"Yeah," I reply, squeezing his fingers with mine before splaying my fingers to free his hand and tracing its outline like a kindergartener. "You have really nice hands," I say. "Thank God you still have all your fingers."

"Why?" he asks, and despite his effort to sound baffled, I can hear the underlying mockery in that one not-so-innocent word. "Did you like something about my fingers, Bella?"

I shrug as if I have no idea what he's talking about, but when he reaches out that long index finger to trail down the line of my cleavage, I'm powerless to hide the full-body shiver that results. He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound, and I don't even care that if he were a cat, yellow feathers would be sticking out of his mouth. A soft sigh falls unbidden from my mouth, and he smiles before turning slightly and rubbing his nose into the pillowcase.

"I like it here," he says, tilting his face only enough for me to hear his words but keeping his eyes and nose partly buried. "It smells like you."

He's sexy and smart and handsome and charismatic and so many other impressive things, but in that moment he's just so damn _adorable_ that I want to hug him. "Oh yeah? What do I smell like?"

He buries his face again under the guise of research and a low hum comes from the depths of my pillow before he turns his head to look at me. "It'll sound stupid."

"Try me."

He scrunches up his nose slightly. "You smell like…happy. Like if light had a smell, it would be you. It's fresh and sweet and airy and…perfect."

"You're adorable," I say, at a loss for any other response, and the slight tinge of pink that touches the tips of his ears only serves to further prove my point. "I like having you here," I add after a moment, and his smile is warm.

"So I can stay, then?"

"Stay as long as you'd like." I mean it with every fiber of my being.

"Done."

We gaze at each other over the expanse of my sheet for another moment before I place my palm flat against his chest, his heart and his tags warm and alive beneath my hand. After a few beats pulse against my palm, I curl my fingers around his tags and he watches me for a moment before he wraps his own fingers around them and pulls them up and over his head. He considers me for a moment before holding them toward me, one eyebrow cocked in question. I tilt my head up from the pillow just enough, and he slides them over my head and around my neck, the chain draping over my breasts as the tags themselves rest on the bed. His green eyes gaze at them, and his lips purse before he curls a hand around the small of my back and pulls me into his body; the desperation that had previously laced his kisses has melted away, replaced by languor and tenderness. He kisses me sweet and soft, gentle and perfect, his free hand dancing a line up and down my spine as I return the kisses, basking in the warm cocoon we are creating beneath the covers. I lose track of how much time passes before his hand flattens against my lower back, urging my lower body into his, and I feel his once-again hard length cradled between our bodies. Still kissing him, I tilt my hips just enough to rub against him, and he sighs into my mouth before pulling away with a mumbled curse.

"What?" I whisper into the semi-darkness, breathless and wanton and bewildered by his sudden retreat.

"My suitcase," he mutters, fisting a hand into his hair. "I left it in your truck."

"So?" I ask, the non sequitur drawing me slightly out of my fog of arousal.

"I only had one condom in my wallet," he says, pressing an apologetic kiss to my lips. "The rest are in my suitcase."

Winding a hand around the back of his neck, I kiss the slight cleft of his chin. "Nightstand. Top drawer."

He pulls back slightly, his face painted in mild surprise as he looks into my eyes, and I bite back a smile at the question he's too much of a gentleman to ask. "Didn't know if you would have had time to pick any up at the airport gift shop," I tease, and his answering chuckle rumbles against my chest.

This time when he enters me, it's slow and steady, inch by inch, a deliberate and unhurried invasion, and once he's inside, he stills his hips. His eyes bore into mine, penetrating me as much as his body is, and I gaze back into his green depths, feeling utterly and wholly consumed. He goes back to kissing me, languid and loose-lipped, and his hips stay perfectly, maddeningly still. I hitch against him in silent intimation, but he presses his hand against the flat of my back again, stilling my movement and bringing me even more flush against him. A beat later, he runs his hand around from my back to my hip and then down my thigh, cupping my hamstring and dragging my top leg over his hips which makes him press even deeper, but he still doesn't move. I break our kiss and tip my head backward, my head tilted toward the headboard.

"Edward." His name is a whimper, a plea, a sigh, and his only answer is a slight shift as he relocates his lips to the column of my throat. When I say his name again, it is laced with a thin thread of desperation, and he must pick up on it because he acquiesces, sliding out of me torturously slowly before pushing back in with the same lack of urgency. Despite his lazy pace, my excitement is mounting, albeit at a very slow rate, and my undeniable yearning for him to speed up only serves to add fuel to the inferno. "Please," I gasp, and I feel the tips of his hair brush the underside of my chin as he shakes his head, his tongue flicking out to tease my nipple.

"I was hasty the first time," he says, and I don't know how he can sound so teasing while he's slipping in and out of my body. "I intend to remedy that this time around."

"It's remedied," I tell him. "So remedied. Just…please."

He sucks my nipple into his mouth and my back arches. "I've been dreaming of this for four months," he murmurs around my peaked flesh, biting gently before releasing and going back to running his tongue over it. "I want to savor."

"Please," I say again, and his eyes meet mine; while his voice may have been cool, his eyes are anything but. His cheeks are flushed and when the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his pink and slightly swollen lips, I think maybe I could come like this after all.

"Oh, Bella." He trails a hand down over my ribs and to my hip. "I'll give you anything you want." He smirks. "You had me at _zig-a-zig-ah._"

"Actually," I say, pushing against his shoulder and rolling us together so that I settle on top of him, my legs falling to either side of his hips. "I sort of liked '2 Become 1' better." Despite his flashing eyes, a small frown pulls his brows together. I lean forward, my hands tracing his torso as I press my lips to his ear and sing a line. "Had a little love, now I'm back for more." I pull back and sit astride him, rocking my hips subtly, and his eyes flash as they drop from my face to my chest. It isn't until then that I remember his dog tags, which are now nestled between my breasts.

"That might be even hotter," he murmurs then looks up at me, too many things swirling in those green depths for me to identify just one. "You look good wearing my name." If I hadn't already needed to escalate things, I do now.

"You look good under me," I tell him, and he smiles softly as his hands cup my hips, his own rising to meet every downward thrust.

When I push us both over the edge, his eyes don't leave mine.

Once he has disposed of the condom and returned to bed, pulling me against his chest and curling a large hand around my ribs, I settle against him, boneless and blissed out.

"I realize that it's only seven o'clock, but I really want to fall asleep with you."

"We can nap," I say, threading my fingers through his and pulling them around my body as I press back into him even more. "We can spoon."

"After that, can we fork some more?"

I laugh. "After that, we can do whatever you want."

* * *

Silvery moonlight slips through my bedroom sheers in soft beams when I wake to the feel of his fingers trailing a line of fire up and down my thigh, and watching his body glow soft blue and cool as he moves above me might be one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

When I wake again hours later, it's to the soft yellow light of early morning and the feel of steady breathing against the back of my neck. I allow myself to luxuriate in the warm cocoon of his arms for a while, until the urge to use the bathroom forces my exodus from the bed. Gently extricating myself from his arms, I sit up on the edge of the mattress and glance back at him to ensure he hasn't roused; as I do, I am struck anew by just how beautiful he is.

In sleep, I suddenly notice the long lashes that I'd noticed at O'Hare, realize that his stubble glints cinnamon-amber in the sunlight, see a small scar on the right side of his neck that I hadn't noticed once in all the times I have already pressed my lips to that exact spot. I catalog all of these new details before rising, slipping the familiar shirt over my head and quietly sliding the top drawer of my dresser open to retrieve a clean pair of cotton underwear. After peeing and then opting for a quick shower, I make my way quietly into the kitchen and peruse the contents of my fridge, grateful beyond words for Rosalie's insistence that I stock up on provisions.

Twenty minutes later, I'm pushing a heap of eggs around a skillet with a wooden spatula when Edward's voice makes my heart lurch. "What are you doing?" I gasp and turn, pulling the spoon with remnants of peanut butter out of my mouth. He is standing in the doorway of the kitchen in his boxers, sleep-rumpled and scowling and adorable, his hair sticking up in all different directions.

"Um. Making breakfast?"

His frown deepens as he scratches his head. "Why?"

I shrug. "I was a little hungry. I thought you might be, too."

"Not for food," he says again, even as his eyes flick toward the skillet on the burner where enough scrambled eggs to feed a party of four are cooking. "Smells good," he admits despite himself, and his bare feet make a slight slapping sound on the linoleum as he crosses the kitchen to stand behind me. I resume flipping and pushing the eggs around the skillet as he wraps his arms around my waist and his chin comes to rest on my shoulder.

"Kitchen-sink eggs," I tell him.

"Kitchen-sink eggs?"

"Yeah. You know the expression, 'Everything but the kitchen sink'? My dad used to make scrambled eggs on the weekends with whatever leftover veggies and stuff we had in the fridge. It was one of the only things he could really cook, besides spaghetti."

"What's in these ones?" he asks, eyeing the orange-tinted mass.

"Onion, red pepper, green pepper, cheese, and salsa."

"Salsa?" His voice is dubious and I chuckle.

"Trust me."

"I do," he says, and as I push the spatula around the pan, I feel one of his hands lower slightly to the hem of my shirt. "I almost forgot how sexy you look in my shirt," he murmurs into my neck, pressing a soft kiss to my skin that makes me shiver.

"I almost forgot I was wearing it," I admit. I've gotten so into the habit of donning the t-shirt whenever I'm not wearing "real" clothes that I didn't think twice about doing so when I slipped from the cocoon of his arms in search of sustenance.

"I like it," he says, his hand sliding up beneath the gray cotton, warm palm skimming over my abdomen.

"I like that," I whisper, words suddenly taking more effort to produce.

"Yeah?" His hand continues its northbound journey, and my breath catches in my throat when it cups my left breast. His thumb finds my pebbled nipple and he hums. "You do like that." His hand shifts to my other breast, and I whimper even as I try to keep stirring our breakfast. His hips press into mine and I feel the length of him against my panty-clad rear end. Abandoning my breasts, his hand travels the same path it took before, sliding back down my torso until he reaches the elastic waistband of my panties. He hesitates only briefly before sliding his hand beneath it and passing over my bare skin to press warm fingertips to my slit. Making a "v" with his index and middle fingers, he slides them up and down along either side of my clit, and the immediate rush of wetness that trickles out of me and onto his fingertips makes him hum in approval. I let my head fall back onto his shoulder as I lose myself in the slow push and pull of his long fingers.

"You're going to burn the eggs," he murmurs into my neck, even as his fingers continue their steady rhythm in and out of me.

"Fuck the eggs," I gasp.

"I'd rather fuck you." With the hand not working me into a frenzy, he reaches out and flips the burner off and pushes the skillet to the back of the stove before stepping to the side and pulling his hand from my underwear. I whimper in protest but he shushes me gently, bending me slightly so that my palms are flat on the countertop. Reaching back beneath the hem of the t-shirt, he pulls my panties down to mid-thigh and pushes the shirt up so that it's bunched over my lower back, exposing me to him, and I glance over my shoulder to see him extract a condom from the waistband of his boxer shorts. Off my amused glance, he offers me a sheepish grin. "I was hard when I woke up," he admits, tearing the condom wrapper and working it over his erection. "So I came to find you."

"I'm glad you did," I tell him as his hands find my hips.

"Is this okay?" he asks, and the coexistence of dominance and shyness does strange things to my heart.

"This is perfect," I say, lowering my upper body until I'm resting on my elbows, and I hear him suck in a harsh breath.

"Jesus, Bella." He pushes into me slowly, and despite the fact that I'd appreciated his size the first, second, and third times I'd felt it inside of me, from this angle he reaches a new depth entirely, and a wanton moan echoes off the kitchen walls. A similar sound escapes him as he begins a rhythmic advance and retreat, and I press my palms flat against the counter as I rock back and forth, giving back what I can even in this position of complete submission. He releases my hips to reach beneath my torso, cupping my swaying breasts in his palms, and as I lurch ever closer toward my peak, I think I could handle being bent and fucked in a sun-washed kitchen every morning for the rest of my life.

* * *

Once we've reheated the eggs and eaten breakfast at my small kitchen table, he coaxes me back to bed with an "I want to see you come in the daylight," but when we start kissing in the doorway to the kitchen and then my hand slips into his boxers in the living room, he winds up watching me come in the daylight on the stairs.

He grumbles something about needing a shower, and I join him, despite the fact that my hair is still damp from the first one I took. We retreat back to the bedroom, and I fire up my iPod, which shuffles around my miscellaneous playlist, occasionally hitting Pearl Jam songs as we laze in my sheets. He tells me a little bit about his parents and his brief reunion with them, and I ask when he's planning to go back to Chicago. When he admits that he bought an open-ended ticket, something skips in my chest.

"I'm liking Seattle, so far," he says, a cheeky smile punctuating the statement, and I laugh as I trace a lazy circle on his stomach.

"You've hardly seen any of it," I argue half-heartedly.

"Bella, I really don't think the Space Needle can outshine what I've already experienced in this lovely city."  
"Space Needle," I echo, plucking teasingly at the waistband of his green plaid boxers. "Maybe a euphemism?"

"Yeah, I don't think I want the world 'needle' to be associated with that particular part of me. For so many reasons."

I laugh. "Fair enough."

"I do like Seattle, though," he says, his voice suddenly serious. "It's somewhere I've always wanted to see."

My mind flashes back to our impromptu map markup four months ago; struck by the memory, I reach over and rummage around in the top drawer of my nightstand. "What are you doing?" he murmurs, his hand tracing a lazy line up my spine and leaving pebbled flesh in its wake.

"Hang on," I reply, rifling through pens and notepads and book lights until I find what I'm looking for. Pushing the drawer closed, I roll back to face him. His eyes are gentle and affectionate, a sated smile pulling at his lips, his free hand splayed across his bare chest. His eyes flick to my closed fist and back up to my face, one eyebrow raised in question.

"Whatcha got there, Bella?" His tone is teasing but curious, and I reach toward him, my fingers curling around the top sheet that is pooled around his hips. I drag the lavender fabric down, down, down until it's a rumpled pile at the foot of the bed, leaving him gloriously uncovered. His eyes track my movements as I sit up on my knees beside his right hip and finally uncurl my fingers to reveal a tiny rectangle of red Post-it flags. His other eyebrow joins the first halfway up his forehead.

"More mapping?"

I nod, peeling the top flag from the stack and pressing it to the skin of his neck, just below his right earlobe. "Places I want to travel," I murmur, placing a small lick just beneath where I've affixed the tab. He grunts his approval and I smile against his skin. "Okay?" I ask.

"Okay," he breathes, and I trace a feather-light touch down the tendon that runs along the side of his neck with the pad of my index finger. Plucking another red strip from the bunch, I press it to the hollow of his throat before resuming my single-finger line across his collarbone. Another red flag finds its way to the other side of his neck, just below the almost-right angle of his jaw, and he licks his lips.

"Just so we're clear," he breathes, his eyes watching my fingers peel another flag. "These places…your mouth?"

"My mouth," I murmur, pressing the red flag to his right nipple. He shifts his hips, and I can already see him hardening, his shaft lengthening against his thigh. I bite back a smile as I trace my finger across the broad expanse of his torso, sticking another metaphorical pin to the piece of skin beneath which I can feel his heartbeat thumping. His green eyes are on me as I stick another Post-it to his left nipple, and another to the skin of his ribs. Another to the line of abdominal muscle above his belly button. More to his happy trail, his left hipbone, the tender skin inside his left thigh.

"Jesus, Bella," he moans, his head pressing back into the pillow as his eyes slide closed. I smile, adding markers to his right hipbone, his right inner thigh. Tracing his inner thigh with my fingertip, I press a flag to the inside of his right knee and one to the inside of his left. Leaning back, I survey my work briefly before adding a flag to each hip flexor and the defined "v" that would be leading into his pants if he were wearing any. I glance up at his face to see his green eyes once again watching me; where a few minutes ago they were gentle and affectionate, now they are fire.

I bite my lip. "Did I miss anywhere?"

"It's it obvious?" he asks, and I glance back down at his lap.

"If I stick a flag on that, I'd feel like I should salute."

"You can do whatever you want to it," he murmurs. "Though I hope he'd get a lot more than a salute."

I laugh and peel another strip. "In that case." I press it gently to the soft skin of his shaft, and he shudders. When I pull away, he groans softly.

"I have to admit, this is much more titillating than the map at O'Hare."

"I should hope so."

He lifts his head off the pillow just enough to glance down at my handiwork before letting it fall back and arching an expectant brow. "So now what are you going to do with me?"

I lick my lips and his eyes darken. "I'm going exploring."

My lips press against the skin of his neck where I placed the first flag, and after I pluck it gently from his neck and drop it to the floor, I dart my tongue out to taste the slightly salty skin before pulling it gently between my teeth. Moving my mouth slowly along his collarbone toward the center of his body, I press another kiss to the hollow of his throat, reveling in his soft whimper before moving to the other side of his neck and kissing the spot just beneath the hinge of his jaw, more sticky strips of red falling from the bed. I run my mouth down the center of his chest before breaking right, sucking his nipple into my mouth and enjoying the responding hiss. Smiling against his skin, I move left and do the same on that side of his body before I press a lingering kiss to the skin above his heart, which is thumping stronger than it was mere moments ago. Following my own route, I drop a line of kisses down the middle of his torso, licking around his belly button and down his happy trail; the tip of his very pronounced erection brushes my chin before I shift to the right and press an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of his hip bone, drawing the thin skin between my teeth and then licking the sting away. I slide downward, pressing lips and tongue to the inside of his thigh until I reach his inner knee. Once I've bestowed attention on that side, I switch to the other side and work my way back up toward his waist in a similar fashion, his gasps and moans falling down around my head, the litany of pleas making me hot. When I reach the top of his thigh, I latch on to the skin of his inner leg just beneath his balls and suck the patch of skin into my mouth, biting and sucking hard enough to mark him, and he growls. I lick the spot again before moving up to lave his hip bone with my mouth, taking even longer on this side, and then swipe my tongue along the crease of his thigh.

When I pull back to look down at him, reclined and panting, his purple-flushed erection straining against his belly, his eyes are pure need. "You missed one," he gasps, and though the words themselves sound demanding, his tone is a plea.

"Oh?" I grin down at him, his desperation only serving to heighten my own arousal.

"Please," he breathes, those green eyes hot. "Have mercy on me."

I press another open-mouthed kiss to the skin beneath his belly button before I reach up and ever-so-gently peel the final flag from his body. He moans as I drop it over the side of the bed and wrap my hand around him, dipping my head forward to flick at his tip with my tongue. His hips lift off the bed, and in my periphery, I can see his hands fisting in the bed sheet.

"You know," I begin conversationally, and he groans. I pretend not to notice as I lazily pump him, keeping my mouth close enough that he can feel my warm breath dance over his skin as I speak. "If we were doing this in the cab of my truck, we'd be improving your so-called batting average."

"Later," he gasps, thrusting shallowly into the loose circle of my fingers. "Again later, just…please."

"When was the last time you had a blow job, Edward?"

"Years," he admits, desperate and unashamed. "It's been years."

Eyeing his swollen length, I shake my head; as I do, tendrils of my hair drag over the tender skin of his inner thighs. "Well, now, that's a tragedy."

"It is," he babbles. "It really, really is."

"Shall we consider it a part of my patriotic duty to rectify that?" I ask, glancing up at his face, and he nods.

"We should. We absolutely should."

Taking pity on him, I lean forward once again and slowly slide my lips over his already-slick tip, and the growl-like sound that falls from his lips makes me tingle. Tracing my tongue in a slow, tight circle around the head of him and over the small slit on the underside, I let my eyes flick up to find him watching me with fire in his eyes.

"Jesus, _fuck_," he gasps, releasing the sheet to place his hands on my shoulders. "God, Bella."

I smile around him and take a little more of his length into my mouth, so slowly that I can almost feel his forced restraint in the desperate clutch of his warm hands on my skin. His hips twitch, a telltale sign that he's harnessing the urge to thrust, if only barely. I pull off his shaft and lick the crease of his thigh before pressing a kiss to his balls. Lifting back up and wrapping my hand around his base, I meet his eye. "Go ahead," I murmur before pressing a soft kiss to his tip.

He frowns through the fog of arousal as his eyes watch my mouth. "Go ahead and what?"

"Fuck my mouth."

His grip on my shoulders tightens suddenly and severely as I take his entire hard-on into my mouth, cradling my tongue beneath his shaft and feeling his tip bump the back of my throat. I ease off slightly in anticipation of his own movement, and I hear a whispered "_Fuck_" slip from his lips as he begins hitching his hips slightly, sliding himself in and out of my mouth. "Oh, God." I feel his fingers tangle in my hair as he follows my order, his hips moving more as he pushes himself into my throat. I moan around him in encouragement, and the hand in my hair closes into a fist as he moans in return. I follow his lead, follow the rhythm he sets, purposely slow in the beginning and increasing with every thrust as his desperation overtakes his trepidation.

"Mmm," I moan, and his pace speeds up even more as the rumble of my hum travels through his body. I do it again and all traces of hesitation are gone as he well and truly fucks my mouth, chasing his release as I hum and suck and relish the feeling of him sliding between my lips. His reactions and the simple fact of his erection in my mouth contribute to the ever-growing wetness between my own legs; I trail one hand up to gently rub his balls while I let the other wander down between my legs to rub against my own hot, desperate flesh.

"Holy fuck, are you touching yourself?" I hum around him in confirmation as my fingertips dance around my own arousal, and I hear him groan. "Jesus." He continues to do as ordered, fucking my mouth as I chase my own peak, and the slick sounds of his length in my mouth and my own hand on my clit pepper the air in between my moans and his gasps. Then his hands release my hair to cup my head, and he completes a few more erratic, jerky thrusts before his choked voice floats above me. "Shit, I'm coming." His hips still and he pulls back as if to withdraw from my mouth, but I press forward, my forehead brushing the skin beneath his belly button as the tip of him hits my throat and he lets go, jets of him releasing into my throat as he cries out. I swallow around him, continuing to suck softly on his length, and he hisses as I relax my mouth muscles, simply sliding along the softening length of him a few times before gently releasing him and pressing a farewell kiss to his tip.

My own body is still humming from the peak that hovers just beyond my reach, and I let my fingertip lazily circle my clit while Edward gasps and pants, his chest heaving as his mouth hangs open. His tongue darts out to lick his lips and replete green eyes find mine. We gaze at each other in silence for a moment before his eyes leave my face and track down my body to where my hand in still buried between my legs.

"You liked that," he murmurs, watching me tease myself.

"I liked that," I agree, spreading my legs slightly and watching as his eyes darken despite his still fading orgasm.

"I like _that_," he says, his eyes still on my hand. "One day I want to watch you make yourself come."

I arch an eyebrow. "One day?" I dip down slightly to gather wetness from myself before moving back up to the bundle of flesh.

"Not today," he clarifies, rolling over to his side and stilling my movements with a gentle hand around my wrist. His eyes pin me. "Today, the only person making you come is me." He rolls us and brings the hand I'd been using to the mattress before doing the same with the other one, restraining my wrists to the bed as his hips press mine down into the sheets. "My turn." His hands guide mine up over my head and to the headboard; he wraps my fingers around the slats. "Leave them there."

He presses a lingering kiss to my mouth before working his way down my body. Open-mouthed kisses and gentle licks are placed against my neck, collarbone, the center of my chest, right over my heart. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, teasing it with tongue and teeth before bestowing the same sweet torture on the other one. I rub my legs together fruitlessly, and I feel him chuckle against my diaphragm. "See? It's not nice to tease." He lowers himself further, pressing kisses along my ribs, my belly button, and to each hip before he settles himself between my legs, licking a stripe up my inner thigh before glancing up at me. "I promised I was going to rock your headboard," he reminds me, and I don't have time to gasp before he lowers his mouth to my center.

At the first swipe of Edward's tongue, I send silent thanks to Rosalie out into the ether, because she was right: I can feel every single thing that his tongue is doing to me. The pointed tip teasing my clit, the flattened expanse dragging up my flesh, the length penetrating my body. I writhe and I gasp and I beg as he tortures me slowly, the wooden slats of my headboard cutting into my palms as I grip them while my lower body twists and trembles and I babble pleas for mercy and prayers for him to send me spinning. When he focuses the attentions of his tongue on my clit and slides two long fingers into my body, I buck up off the bed and his name falls from my lips as I tremble and shake and tip over the edge, pleasure spiraling outward from the very center of me, my entire body like a string pulled taut and plucked with nearly enough force to snap it. As I float blissfully into the post-orgasm haze, Edward's fingers slip from my body and his tongue slows to make a few soft passes along my flesh before he presses kisses to the insides of my thighs and the skin of my stomach before propping his chin on my belly.

He grins up at me as if he's won a gold medal, and if I could find a coherent word, I'd tell him that there can only be one first prize, and I'm pretty sure he's it.

* * *

_A/N: __I'd like to say that I was pleasantly surprised by the number of people who supported Bella's decision in Chapter 6 to travel to Gaza. It gives me hope that our generations of women are finally okay about saying, "This is what I have to do for me. If he loves me, it won't matter." And I'd like to thank the people who said, "I usually don't read WIPs, but…" I know. I'm a WIP-wuss. I can't take the waiting game. Thank you for taking this journey with me anyway._

_Also, in case you were wondering, Chapter 8? Almost done. Do you love me?_


	8. Chapter 8: Layovers

**Departures**

**Summary: **"Heroism is in a person's personality, not his job description. And you couldn't be a coward if you tried."

**Rating: **M (No joke.)

**Acknowledgement:** HollettLA betas in mid-air; she's like a superhero!

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Layovers**

"Okay, remind me again what the hell we're doing out of bed?" Edward asks, sunlight setting his hair aflame, the zipper of his hooded jacket only drawn up to the middle of his torso.

"Coming up for air," I tell him, delighting in the comforting weight of his arm draped around my shoulders.

"I'd rather breathe you for the next two days," he murmurs against my temple, and I laugh.

"I know the feeling. But I also want a sweet roll, and it's the one thing I can't make and the one thing I want to be the first to show you."

"Fair enough," he says, but he's smiling as I pull open the door to The Lovely Buns. He follows me to the end of the short line at the register, and I watch with glee as his eyes flick over the bakery case, taking in cupcakes and muffins and various other baked goods. "Can we get some chocolate croissants for later?" he pleads, sounding more like his four-year-old niece than a grown man, and I smile indulgently.

"We can get whatever you want."

"Excellent."

"Bella?" I turn at the familiar voice saying my name to find Jake standing in line behind me, his hand intertwined with a woman's. Her blond hair is swept back into a ponytail, and she's wearing jeans and a long-sleeved Dartmouth t-shirt. Pearl studs dot her earlobes and she has small black-framed glasses perched on her tiny nose. "Hey." Jake flicks his eyes from me to Edward and back to me again.

"Hey, Jake!" I grin and offer a smile at his apparent date. I want to say something friendly like, "Oh, you must be Vanessa," but if it turns out that she's not, I'm going to feel like a complete jackass and probably screw Jake over in the process. I wind my arm into the crook of Edward's elbow. "Jake, this is Edward Cullen. Edward, this is my friend Jacob Black; we grew up together."

"Nice to meet you," Edward offers, extending his hand for a handshake, which Jake returns with the hand not clasping the woman's.

"Likewise," Jake says, and in the narrowing of his eyes that is so quick I doubt anyone but me catches it, I can see him struggling to leave his cop hat off. "Uh, Ness, this is Bella Swan and her, uh, boyfriend? Edward. Guys, this is my girlfriend, Vanessa."

More handshakes are exchanged and we stand in semi-awkward almost-silence as the line crawls. "Sweet rolls?" Jake asks after a moment, and I nod. When I found the wonder that was this café and subsequently screwed my figure over by discovering the most delicious baked goods ever, Jake was the first person I dragged along with me to confirm that they were, in fact, sweet, sugary perfection.

"You?" I ask, and he nods in return. Neither of us shows even the slightest amount of shame about our craving, which speaks more highly of their goodness in Jake's case than mine. He boasts about two percent body fat count and exercises religiously, and with the exception of a beer when he goes home to fish with Charlie and Billy, these sweet rolls might be his lone dietary vice.

We finally reach the front of the line, and Edward steps up to the register to order. "Hi," he greets the cashier with a warm smile, and I can't even fault her for fawning slightly. "We need four sweet rolls, two chocolate croissants…" He pauses to glance at me and then over his shoulder. "Do you guys want coffees?"

"You don't have to get ours," Jake says quickly, and Edward shakes his head.

"Please. I'm attempting to make a good impression; help me out."

Jacob nods finally and glances at Vanessa. "Coffee, babe?"

"Actually, would it be okay if I had a tea?" she asks Edward, and he nods as the cashier points to the overhead menu and asks what type of tea she'd like. Once Edward settles the bill and we're all clutching paper cups with cardboard sleeves, Vanessa inclines her head toward the back of the bakery and murmurs something to Jacob before disappearing toward the ladies' room. "Bella?" Jake flicks a glance toward Edward before clearing his throat. I recognize the nervous tic and wonder what's amiss. "Would you mind…" He glances at Edward again before shifting his weight. "Could I just talk to you for a quick second?"

"Okay. Um. Sure."

"It's okay," Edward interjects. "I'm intrigued by the bookstore next door. Meet you in there?"

A grateful smile is my response, and he drops a quick kiss on my mouth before disappearing through the glass door of the bakery with my sugar and my _sugar_. I turn to face Jacob, who has also watched Edward's departure before meeting my eyes. "What's up, Jake?"

"I, uh—" He clears his throat, and I don't think I've seen Jacob this uncomfortable since he tried to ask me to his senior prom over a decade ago. "Bells, I owe you an apology."

At that, my eyebrows arch before almost immediately dropping for a frown. "What for?" If he's used his wily cop ways to derail my Gaza trip at Charlie's behest, I'll kill them both.

He blows out a breath and I can hear the crinkle of paper as he tightens his grip on the brown paper sack that is clutched in his fist.

"I know I…_pushed_…sometimes. Over the years. With us." He flicks a glance back toward the alcove into which Vanessa disappeared before continuing. "I didn't know what it could feel like. Until Ness, I didn't realize…" He sighs. "Bella, since we were kids, I just loved you so much – I _cared_ about you so much – and I never really understood what to do with it. And I know that when I pushed for us to be something more, it made you uncomfortable, and I'm really sorry about that."

The affection I've always had for Jacob swells in my chest, and I reach out a hand to touch his forearm. "Jake, I love you, too. But listen…I have this theory." His face is skeptical, so I continue. "I think you can be soul mates with someone without it being a romantic thing. That's kind of how I always felt about us, you know? Like, brothers and sisters…siblings…that's just biology. But us…we're more than that, somehow. That's how I've always felt, anyway." He nods slowly, digesting my theory before he sighs again.

"Yeah. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense." The paper crinkles again. "I'm still sorry, though."

I shake my head. "Don't be. We're good."

"Thank God you were so logical and stopped us from ruining our friendship entirely, huh?"

At that, an actual laugh breaks free. "You know, that might be the first time someone's ever implied that I'm level-headed."

That earns me a small chuckle. "Yeah. Don't let it go to your head." His dark eyes flick toward the sidewalk before scanning my face. "How are things with soldier boy?"

The answer is in the sudden pinking of my face, and Jake's face splits into a teasing grin. "Okay, I don't need _quite_ that level of detail."

I shake my head. "No, it's just…things are…great. Really great."

"That's great." He purses his lips before his features harden slightly. "He talk you out of this boneheaded trip yet?"

"No, and he hasn't tried," I reply, careful to make my tone as firm as I can without sounding defensive. "I'm going, Jake. And I love you and Charlie for worrying, but I'm going. And I'll be fine, and I'll come home."

"And then what? Then you'll go back in a few weeks' time?"

"I don't know that yet."

Jacob's mouth opens to say something more, but he's cut off by the reappearance of his girlfriend, who smiles warmly at me. "Bella, it's so nice to meet you, finally. Jake's told me a lot about you."

It's easy to return her smile, and I really hope that things work out for her and Jake. She seems really nice. "I've heard a lot about you, too." I hitch my head in Jacob's direction. "Keep this guy in line, okay?"

The adoring smile she casts in Jacob's direction makes me feel so, so happy for my friend. "I'll try my best."

I nod. "I'd better go find Edward. Enjoy the rolls!" I slip back outside and walk the few steps to the entrance of the bookstore next door, the bell on the door jingling a welcome as I open it and step inside. I pass a few aisles before I spot Edward in the travel section, standing in front of the "Local/Seattle" shelf. "Hey," I greet, and immediately wonder what it is about bookstores that makes me whisper.

"Hey," he murmurs, and the low timbre of his voice makes me want to rip the book out of his hand and drag him the few blocks back to my apartment and not leave my bed for the next two days. He is entirely oblivious to my sudden surge of arousal, however, immersed as he is in his reading material.

"What's that?"

He holds it up in the space between us, and I recognize the cover almost instantly: a _Lonely Planet _guide to Seattle. "I figure I'm going to have some down time once you ditch me to go be Anderson Cooper, so I'm doing some research." It's not the first time I've felt guilty about leaving him, but it's the first time I've felt that way as a direct result of something he's said. He glances up at me, as if immediately regretting his words, and offers me a small smile. "Kidding. I didn't mean that to sound as bitter as it did." I nod and he sighs, closing the book. "I'm worried. That's all. I hate the idea of you there. It's…very unsettling."

I understand; the mere idea that he might have been hurt halfway around the world is something that cultivated deep seeds of panic in my chest, and that was before I knew what it felt like to wake up next to him, to lay supine beneath him, to feel every inch of my naked flesh pressed flush to his. All I can do is nod. "I know."

He nods, and we leave it there because there's really nowhere else to drive that particular car. He holds up the paper sack and his pink lips twist. "What are the odds these could be enjoyed even more than normal if I were eating them off your naked body?"

I cock my head to one side. "I have no idea, but I'm not the type to say no to a little experimentation in the name of empirical research."

"Terrific." He stashes the book back on the shelf and retrieves his coffee before pressing a hand to the small of my back and leading me back out through the door and into the street. Much like yesterday, the day itself is beautiful: unseasonably warm, sun bright in a robin's egg sky, and essentially idyllic. Then again, it could be freezing cold and pouring buckets and I'd probably still feel like it was pretty much perfect. As if he's read my mind, Edward interlocks his fingers with mine, somehow managing to grip the bag and his coffee in his free hand.

I gaze up at his profile, feeling as though all of the emotions I felt as a result of his e-mails increase exponentially with every moment I actually spend with him. "Surely it can't always feel like this," I say, running my thumb along the back of his hand.

"Of course it can. And don't call me Shirley."

I laugh out loud and he beams down at me. We walk in comfortable silence for a block or so until I'm pulled out of my blissful reverie by the soft chime of my cell phone. I let go of Edward's hand to pull it out of my pocket and check the ID before answering the call.

"Hey, Seth!"

"Hi Bella," comes the increasingly familiar voice. "I'm sorry to bother you on a weekend."

"No sweat," I reply, and apparently displeased with the loss of my hand, Edward drapes his free arm around my shoulder as we walk.

"I have a favor to ask of you."

"Shoot."

"I don't want to inconvenience you, but my mom's helping my sister move and I'm supposed to be somewhere this afternoon, and I was wondering if it was at all possible to bother you for a ride. I'll pay the gas and anything else, I'm just not cleared to drive yet—"

"Seth," I cut him off, chuckling lightly. "Stop. It's no problem at all. Just tell me when and where."

"It's…today, actually. In an hour and a half. I'm sorry, my mom really thought she'd be back in time."

"No problem. I'm on my way."

"Thank you, Bella, seriously."

"Sure thing." I end the call and stash the phone back in my pocket, glancing over to see Edward gazing at me intently.

"Where are we going?"

"Seth needs a ride to something, and his mom got caught up somewhere. I can drop you back at my place if you want, or you can come with me."

He reclaims my hand. "I'll come," he says. "I'd actually like to meet Seth."

"He's a sweet kid," I say, taking a small sip of my coffee.

We drop the rolls off in my kitchen and retrieve my truck from the driveway, and fifteen minutes later, Edward is pulling into Seth's driveway. He must have been watching for us, as he appears on the porch almost immediately, making his way down the stairs swiftly despite the cane still gripped in one hand. "Hey, Bella," he calls as I lean over and open the passenger door.

"Hey," I return as he climbs in, and I'm impressed at the fluidity of his movements. His injured leg doesn't seem to slow him down in the slightest. "Seth, this is my boyfriend, Edward Cullen. Edward, Seth Clearwater."

Seth's eyes snap to Edward and his hand snaps to his forehead in automatic salute; Edward offers him a friendly smile and shakes his head slightly. "At ease," he says easily. "I'm just here as the boyfriend." He smirks slightly at me. "And chauffeur."

Seth nods and pulls the door shut.

"Where we headed?" I ask, and he props his cane up between his splayed knees.

"You know the VFW hall over on Evergreen?"

"Yeah."

"This organization called the Hurt Heroes Foundation asked me to come and give a talk…"

"Wow, Seth, that's great."

"Well, it probably wouldn't have happened if not for you," he replies. "They only know me because of your pictures." I shift slightly on the bench seat and sip my coffee. From the corner of my eye I can see Edward's head turned toward me, and when I glance at him, there's something that looks like pride in his eyes.

"Bella's going to Gaza," he says to Seth, and while his earlier words made me worry that he loathed the idea, now his tone holds nothing but admiration.

"Really?" Seth asks, and I turn back to him.

"Yeah. Remember that lady from the awards dinner?"

"Yeah."

"Her husband is the photo editor for _WorldView_ magazine, and he offered me a job. Well, sort of. Pending this trial run in Gaza."

"Wow, Bella, that's really great. Congratulations."

"Thanks." I nudge him slightly with his shoulder. "But it probably wouldn't have happened if not for you. They only know me because of your pictures." Both he and Edward crack up, and I shift my focus to directing Edward toward our destination. I admit that I like the way he wants to drive, and I like the look of him behind the wheel of my truck nearly as much as I like the look of him tangled in my bed sheets. When we pull into the parking lot, Seth grabs his cane and slides out of the cab, turning back to glance at me before tilting his head toward the nondescript building. "Why don't you come in for a second? I'd like to introduce you to the lady I talked to on the phone. She was really impressed by the pictures." He shifts his gaze to Edward. "And you, of course, would be more than welcomed."

"Sure," Edward replies before I can say anything, killing the engine and unbuckling his seat belt. The idea of talking about the pictures makes me slightly awkward, but I nod in agreement as I slide along the bench seat and follow Edward out of the truck.

Inside, people mill about drinking coffee, playing cards and checkers, and clustered in small groups. Some have papers in front of them, as if they are conducting business, and others are simply chatting as if they are friends who met for coffee. The only clear indication as to the nature of the gathering is the number of attendees in military-related apparel and the décor on the walls.

"Are you Seth?" The woman who appears suddenly behind us is tiny and dark-haired and almost reminds me of my mother.

"Yes, ma'am," Seth replies, turning to face her fully.

"Oh, thank you _so_ much for coming. It's wonderful to meet you!" she gushes, grabbing Seth's hand and pumping it with enough enthusiasm that if he weren't so muscular, she'd probably be rattling his bones.

"Thank you," Seth replies, smiling his easy smile. "This is Bella Swan, the photographer whose photos you liked."

"Oh, yes, of _course_!" she says brightly, grinning and treating me to the same handshake Seth just enjoyed. "Your photos were mag_nificent_. Really, really lovely."

"Thank you," I say, feeling my cheeks heat slightly.

"And this is Major Edward Cullen," Seth says, and I honestly hadn't thought the woman could get more enthusiastic until her eyes alight on Edward.

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Edward says, and the word "ma'am" falling off his lips makes me want to tie him up and make him say it again.

"Oh, Major Cullen, the pleasure is _mine_," she says, shaking his hand as well. "I'm so glad you two could join us," she says, and when Edward simply nods, I don't have the heart to say we're not staying. When Seth's smile brightens, it occurs to me for the first time that perhaps he was nervous about doing this, about talking in front of this sea of people. I remember how docile he was when I first showed up with my camera, and feel a sudden swell of desire to support him.

"We're looking forward to hearing Seth speak," I say, and she beams.

"Lovely. Oh, that's just lovely. Well please, help yourselves to coffee and refreshments, and make yourselves at home." She ushers Seth off to meet some other people, and Edward and I migrate toward the refreshments table. After Edward pilfers enough cookies to supply a Girl Scout troop, we find seats in the small collection of rows assembled near the front of the cavernous room, and a few minutes later the seats are all but totally filled. Seth appears at the front of the room with two other veterans, and after the woman who welcomed us introduces them and they begin speaking, I lose myself in their stories.

Halfway through, the coffee I sucked down on the way over has run through me, and I slip out of my seat to use the restroom in the back of the hall. When I emerge again, I steal another cookie for Edward from the table and jump like a kid with her hand in the proverbial jar when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Whipping around, I see the greeter-lady smiling at me.

"May I bother you for one moment?" she asks, and I nod. She steps closer but angles her body toward the front of the room, eyes on the three young vets. "Do you work for the _Seattle Weekly_, or do you freelance?"

Her question catches me off-guard, and I frown as Seth's voice hums in the background. "Oh. Um, I work for the _Weekly_." My frown deepens. "Well, I worked for them when I took the photos. I'm sort of…between things right now."

Her eyebrows hitch and she smiles, which seems an odd reaction. "Really?" Her tone is excited. Definitely odd, this woman.

"Well, I was offered a position with _WorldView_ magazine, so I'm actually taking a trip with them for a tryout of sorts this coming week."

Her face falls slightly. "Oh."

My curiosity gets the better of me. "May I ask why?"

She sighs. "We're really trying to grow the organization," she murmurs. "A lot of people know about us, but a lot of people don't. There are so many veterans in this country who could really use so many different kinds of help – emotional support, health-related support, help finding employment, or furthering their education. We have so many things we want to accomplish and to be capable of accomplishing, and we're trying to grow, but as is always the way with things like this, funding is limited. We need to grow to increase our funding, and we need to increase our funding in order to grow." Off my frown, she chuckles softly. "Sorry. Soapbox. Anyway, part of making people aware of who we are and what we do is communication, and a big part of _that_ is publications. And in this day and age, publications – even informational ones – need to be sexy. And for sexy fundraising and informational brochures and magazines and web sites, you need good art." Her eyes pin me. "And your photos are good art. _Great _art, as I'm sure you've already been told many times. And I'd love to be able to have someone like you on staff, though Lord knows it would probably be a pay cut from what you were making and would certainly be less than you could make at a publication like _WorldView_." She laughs lightly, but her eyes are disappointed. "Can't blame me for trying." She shrugs, oblivious to the sudden tornado that has taken up residence where my logical brain used to be.

Before I can think about it, I find myself saying the very words I was on the receiving end of a matter of weeks ago. "Do you have a card?"

* * *

When we have dropped Seth off back at his house and are once again rolling along the Seattle streets in the direction of my house, horny Bella makes a reappearance. Edward is by turns chuckling and groaning, his knuckles turning white where he grips the steering wheel as I press kisses along the side of his neck and flick his earlobe with my tongue.

"And here I was, worried that you were going to think all I had in mind when I got here was sex," he laughs, but his attempt at nonchalance is belied by the hitch in his breathing.

"I was hoping," I reply, finding his inner thigh with my hand.

"Okay, unless you were serious about the batting average analogy, you may want to rein it in for just a few more minutes."

"I was deadly serious," I say, though I drag my hand back off his leg. "But I have an idea for that." His head swivels to stare at me, and I laugh. "Keep driving, Edward."

"I'm trying," he mutters, but those lips I'm officially obsessed with curl up into a hint of a smile. When he finally pulls Murphy into the driveway and unbuckles his seat belt – noticeably carefully, given the considerable protrusion from behind the fly of his jeans – his eyes are echoing the promises his body is hinting at. "Inside," he says, and I can't resist the urge to tease him.

"Actually, I had something a little different in mind." I slide across the bench seat and capture his mouth in a kiss, slipping my tongue into his open mouth and relishing in the moan that echoes into mine. After kissing him good and breathless, I break away, smirking up at him. "Go inside and get a condom and meet me on the back porch."

His eyebrows leap up his forehead, and I give him what I hope is an appropriately saucy wink as I turn away and slip out of the car. He must run up the stairs and through the apartment, because by the time he emerges onto the back porch, he is slightly breathless. I quirk an eyebrow at him, and his green eyes flick around the deck before they fall on me, an alluring and adorable blend of confusion and arousal in his eyes. Raising one eyebrow in suggestion, I lean back against the railing of our deck, the top rail of which is mercifully wide. Anxiety immediately passes over his face as I crook a finger at him. "Bella, I don't—"

"Batting average, remember? Plus, I think it's time we rectified your previous faux pas in the railing department."

He shakes his head, even as his doubt does little to deflate the erection that still tents his jeans. "That's not water down there," he says, nodding toward our tiny little postage stamp of a backyard. "If you fall, you could get hurt."

"I'm not going to fall," I assure him, but his forehead remains creased in consternation. "Edward." His eyes find mine. "Come here."

Despite his misgivings, he does as he's told, and I smirk inwardly; leave it to a military man to be incapable of ignoring a direct order. He steps between my legs and I wrap my arms around his waist. "I won't fall because I'll be holding on too tightly to go anywhere." I rise up on my toes to kiss his mouth. "Trust me."

I can feel the hesitation in his kiss, so I release his mouth to press my lips along the stubbly line of his jaw. "Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Take my pants off."

He hesitates for only a moment before his arousal apparently wins out over his uncertainty, and his fingers find the button of my jeans and free it from its hole. He lowers the zipper and pulls back to look into my face for a second before sliding his hands into the waistband and pushing my pants down my legs. "You take orders very well," I observe, and his eyes narrow infinitesimally; I'm relieved to see that the worry is quickly being eclipsed by a combination of playfulness and heat.

"I'm much better at giving them," he breathes.

"Oh? Well, maybe we'll try that later." But before I can taunt him any further, I feel his large hands wrap around my hips and hoist me effortlessly onto the railing. "I really hope I don't wind up with a splinter in my ass," I say, realizing suddenly how very easily that could happen.

All concern for my well-being evidently left his brain at around the same time as the majority of his blood headed south, because he shrugs. "I'll make it worth your trouble," he says and drags my jeans the remainder of the way off my ankles, dropping them to the deck before stepping between my knees. "You have no idea how badly I want to see your tits in the sunlight, but I don't like to share and your yard isn't exactly private." I glance around, and it's a testament to what this man does to me that I hadn't really considered the very real possibility that my eighty-one-year-old neighbor is about to watch me get nailed on my back deck. He doesn't wait for my reply, running his fingers over the middle of my chest and down my belly. "You're sure about this?" he asks, and I slide my hands beneath the hem of his t-shirt to undo the button fly of his jeans.

"Edward, I've been thinking about this since January."

He shakes his head slightly, even as he pulls me closer to him. "Once again, I feel I should express my concern at your apparent tendency to gloss over the more salient details of that particular encounter."

"Your concerns are noted." I reach into his open jeans and pull his cock out through the hole in his boxers, stroking it gently as Edward hisses and drops his head to watch my hand slip over his length. It grows steadily harder in my palm, and Edward's breaths grow steadily more ragged as his hands clutch and release my thighs.

As he slides into me, I gasp. At this angle, I can feel the length of him slide along my clit. "Okay?" he asks, stilling deep inside me, and I nod against his shoulder.

"Okay." He slides slowly out of me before pushing back in at the same pace, and despite the location and the relatively public nature of what we're doing, this doesn't feel nearly as wanton or reckless as what happened at my kitchen counter. If it were possible to make love on a railing, I'd almost think that was what we were doing. "God, Edward."

"Good?"

"Great." He picks up the pace slightly, sliding in and out in a steady rhythm as his hands gently cradle the small of my back, and I'm hurtling toward my peak much quicker than I'd anticipated. I don't know if it's the somewhat cool air or the blistering heat between my thighs, but goose bumps pebble on my skin as my breath comes in short, choppy gasps. "Don't stop," I plead, even though he shows no intention of doing any such thing and he shakes his head as he looks down to watch himself sliding in and out of my body. At the visual, he picks up the pace slightly and I let my head fall back as I grip the railing, staring up into a cloudless sky as my breaths come in gasps. I feel his mouth latch on to my nipple through my shirt and bra before he releases it and buries his face in the tender skin of my neck. His hips thrust in and out of me harder now, and his breathing keeps pace with my own. He shifts slightly and his left arm wraps all the way around my back as his right disappears for a brief second before his thumb finds my clit. "Oh," I gasp, rocking my hips into his fingers and his hips as much as the railing will allow.

"Come," he breathes, still driving in and out. "Come around me."

"So close," I tell him, and with a few more drives of his hips and a few more circles of his thumb, I'm there. "Coming," I manage to spit out as my body clenches around the length of him, and I crush him to me with my legs. He groans low and long and lets go, a few more erratic thrusts before he stills and releases, his body taut and jerking as my body milks his release from him.

"Jesus," he wheezes, his face still buried in my neck, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders as I straighten slightly, pressing my torso to his and hugging him as we come down together.

"Mission accomplished," I murmur into his hair, and as he chuckles, I feel him slip out of me.

"And then some, I'd say," he replies. We stay like that for a few moments, our hearts thudding unevenly against each other as they attempt to return to a normal rhythm. Warm, damp breath puffs against the curve of my neck, and I can feel Edward's fingertips tapping out a rhythm against the small of my back. "Do you play the drums?" I ask, and I feel more than see him shake his head.

"Piano," comes the muffled reply, and I pull back to look into his face, which is sporting the dopey smile that I'm already coming to learn is his post-orgasm face. It's worth noting that his _actual_ orgasm face is about as far from dopey as it gets.

"Really?"

He smirks. "My mother always wanted a musician in the family, and she had no luck trying to get either of my brothers to agree to music lessons, so she bullied me into starting piano when I was seven."

"Are you any good?"

"Depends on who you ask," he replies with a shrug, his hands leaving my back to trace along my outer thighs. "I always heard music in my head, and I wanted to play what I was hearing, but I had absolutely no patience for learning to read or write music. My piano teacher was convinced I was a prodigy, but that my complete lack of discipline would relegate me to playing 'Chopsticks' for the duration of my lessons."

"And did it?"

He scrunches up his face. "Not exactly. But I never did learn Debussy."

"What can you play?"

"Songs I like."

"Which includes…?"

"Lennon's 'Imagine.' Billy Joel's 'Piano Man.' The theme song from 'Forrest Gump'."

"That's a pretty good playlist if you ask me."

He chuckles. "Too bad you don't teach seven-year-olds to play piano." He frowns slightly. "Do you play any instruments?"

I laugh out loud. "Hell no. I'm so tone-deaf it's not even funny. I'm a rock star in my car and my shower, but other than that, you'll never hear me sing or pick up anything more complex than a kazoo." I can't get the image of him playing the piano out of my head.

"Hey, Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't laugh."

"Okay."

"My dick is getting cold."

I break my promise immediately, a loud guffaw escaping me as I glance down between us to see his deflated, condom-clad penis exposed to the elements. "Bummer," I say, and he glares at me.

"You know, it seems to me that you've grown quite attached to that part of me over the course of the past two days, so it's probably in your best interest as much as mine that it not drop off."

"True story," I agree, hopping off the railing and linking my hand with his to drag him inside. "Let me warm it back up for you."

Despite my innuendo, we don't fall immediately back into bed; instead, we partake of the sweet rolls that are calling my name from where we abandoned them on the kitchen table. While I make a cup of coffee for him and tea for myself, I sneak peeks to where he's ambling around the perimeter of the living room, looking at our bookshelves and our DVD collection and the few framed photos that dot the shelves. "Is all of this your stuff?" he calls, and I shake my head as I steep my tea bag.

"No. It's a mix of mine and Angela's."

"Do you have books in your room?"

I laugh as I add milk. "If memory serves, you've seen my room already."

"I was distracted by the large piece of furniture in the middle of the room," he says, and I can hear the shrug in his words.

"Fair enough. Yes, I have books in my room."

"What's your favorite?"

"I hate that question."

He appears beside me at the counter, smiling with half his mouth. "You hate that question?"

I nod as I stir. "It's too hard to answer. I mean, first of all, I like to read, so I've read a lot of books. And my favorite tends to change with my mood. I also never know where on the spectrum to answer."

"Spectrum?" he repeats, his voice thick with unreleased laughter.

"Like, I don't want to say something brainless, lest you think I'm shallow, but I also don't want to pick something too classic or deep, in case I come across as pretentious."

"You're precious."

"Shut up."

"No, really. You don't even realize that that answer was every bit as telling as naming your favorite book would be. Possibly more so."  
I scowl as I thrust a mug at him. "What's _yours_?"

"_On The Road_."

"Hm."

"Hm, what?"

"Nothing. Just 'hm.' That's a very…_guy_ choice."

He chuckles. "Maybe so."

I'm saved from having to pare down my favorites list to a few highlights by the ringing of my cell phone, which is still buried in the purse I dumped on the counter when we finally made it inside. "Hello?"

"I sincerely hope you're not answering the phone in the middle of hot reunion sex." Angela's voice is all mock-scandal, and I laugh.

"Believe me when I tell you that I wouldn't be answering the phone if we were in the middle of it," I say, and when I glance over at him, I see Edward smirk behind the rim of his mug.

"Good to know. Hey, so, I want to meet Army-boy and I want to see you before you go. Think you can drag your blissful butt out of the love nest for a few hours tonight?"

I'm still looking at Edward, who is now gazing at the aerial photo of the Northwest Peninsula. "Yeah, probably," I reply, and a low laugh comes through the phone. Edward offers me a small smile and rises from the table, taking his mug and wandering into the living room, where he sinks down onto our brown sofa.

"Well, gee, thanks. So I take it that part of it's going well, then?"

I lean against the lip of the counter, lowering my voice a few octaves. "You have no idea."

"Nice. Okay. Well, how about Ramsey's at nine? We'll just grab a few drinks."

"Perfect," I tell her, and after we say our good-byes, I stash my phone back in my bag and follow Edward into the living room.

"Angela wants to meet you," I say as I pause just inside the doorway, and he nods against the back of the sofa, licking the powdered sugar from his sweet roll from his fingertips. I try nobly not to focus on the swipes of his tongue and fail miserably.

"Okay."

"You don't mind?"

He chuckles. "Bella, of course I don't mind. Plus, I'm sure your friends want to see _you_, too. You are leaving the country in two days." He shrugs. "Besides, not that I haven't enjoyed every single instance in which I've been inside you, but I am a thirty-two-year-old man. Recharging probably wouldn't be the worst idea."

I laugh. "Could have fooled me. Your batteries have seemed much more Energizer than rechargeable, in my opinion." As his words roll around in my brain, though, I frown. When he notices, he mirrors the expression.

"What?"

"I just realized that's the first time I knew how old you are."

He scratches his nose. "Huh. Yeah, okay, I guess that is a little odd."

"I mean, if I'd been so inclined to do the math, I probably could have figured it out, given that you were a college senior on 9/11. I just…never did."

"How old are you?" he asks, then rushes to add, "If you don't mind my asking."

"Such a gentleman," I tease. "Twenty-eight." I plop myself beside him on the sofa, and his hand immediately comes to rest on my bent knee while the other lifts his coffee mug to his lips. "It's weird. I feel like I know you so, _so_ well in so many ways." When I trail off, frowning, he picks up the baton and runs with it.

"But then there are some little, stupid things that you don't know that trip you up."

"Yeah." I retrieve my teacup from the coffee table and take a sip.

"Okay." He angles his body slightly so that he's facing me head-on, bending one leg and resting it on the sofa between us. "Shoot."

"What?"

"Anything you want to know. Hit me with it."

After a moment's consideration, I shrug. "I don't know. I mean…" I frown into the middle-distance. "I guess…my questions are probably more situational than personal."

"Meaning?"

"Well, like, in your e-mail you said that this was your last tour with the Army." At my questioning eyebrow, he nods in confirmation, so I continue. "So I guess one question would be…what are you going to do now? I mean, are you going to look for a job in Chicago? Or are you going to do something else military-related, like be a recruiter or something?"

He traces indistinct designs on my knee and rests his mug on his thigh. "I don't know, exactly," he admits, his eyes following his finger. "I mean…" He blows out a breath. "Honestly, getting home and getting to you were the only things I was really focused on. And as to the Chicago thing…" Here, he looks at my face before looking away, toward the darkened television screen. "I'm not really sold on moving back to Chicago." The tips of his ears grow pink. "I sort of wanted to see what you thought."

While the implication of his words sends a thrill through me, I shake my head. "Edward."

"I know, I know. This is new. But it also feels…not new. It feels real, and serious, and lasting, even if we're still getting to know each other a little bit. But I wouldn't want to be 2,000 miles away from you. I feel like I spent the first four months of our relationship on the other side of the world, and there's no way I want to spend the foreseeable future closer to the other side of the country."

I bite my lip against the smile that threatens to break free and look down into my milky tea. "That's…" I'm struggling to find words when he cuts me off.

"A lot of pressure. I know, that's a lot of pressure. On you, on this, on us. But for some reason, it doesn't freak me out, and I don't even know why. I just…I want you, and this, and us, and I want it here and now. Everything else is just…logistics."

I nod, letting the weight of his words settle over me like a down-filled duvet before I look back up into his face. "Okay," I say after a minute, and his bottom teeth scrape his upper lip.

"If that freaks you out, though, you have to tell me, Bella. I don't want to drive this faster than you're prepared to go."

I shake my head. "I'm with you."

His chest heaves and sinks with a sigh that sounds a lot like relief. "Okay." He nods. "Okay, then." He relaxes slightly back into the couch and his finger resumes tracing patterns on my skin. "Well, in that case…I've been thinking about going back to school."

"Medical school?" I ask, taking another sip.

"Not exactly. I have all of my coursework from my undergrad that was completed with a medical degree in mind, but after my experiences with the Army, I think…well, I'm pretty good in crisis, and I can handle volatile situations pretty well, so I was thinking I might make a good paramedic."

Caught completely off-guard, I can feel the surprise making itself evident on my face. "Wow, really?"

He chuckles. "I know. It's sort of random." But even as he says it, the pieces are falling into place in my mind.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "It's not random at all. It's actually sort of perfect; I could totally see you doing something like that."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Good. Because I haven't told anyone else that yet. It's still sort of just an idea."

"Well, I think it's a great one."

His warm hand leaves my leg and rises to cup my jaw. "Thank you, Bella."

I tilt my head so that my whole cheek is in his palm. "While we're on the subject…" I leave the transition hanging and his eyebrows rise expectantly. "I'm not going to take the job with _WorldView_."

He frowns. "Bella, we talked about this."

"No, no, it has nothing to do with you."

"Wow. You sure know how to stroke a guy's ego."

"I'll stroke anything you want me to in about ten minutes," I murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to his warm mouth and giggling when I feel his hand grip my thigh.

"Okay. So. What do you mean you're not taking the job?'

"I know I said I wanted to take photos in war zones, but I don't think I do anymore." Off his raised eyebrow, I return my tea to the coffee table and bring my other leg up to sit cross-legged on the sofa facing him. Edward mirrors my posture after placing his own mug on the table, his face open and his hands wrapped gently around my ankles.

"Okay," he says slowly.

"I didn't really realize it until I was sitting at that awards dinner with Seth. There were all of these _really_ amazing pictures, and when they showed mine, in that moment I just…I really, _really_ didn't want to win." He frowns slightly and I take a deep breath. "Edward, if I had won, it would have felt like I was cashing in on Seth's pain." He opens his mouth to argue but I stall his verbal protest with a shake of my head. "I know I wouldn't have been, but that's what it would have felt like to me. Every time I thought about it, it would have felt like I won something because of Seth's suffering, and when I thought about it more, I realized that as much as I want to photograph things that are worthwhile, I don't want the major moments of my career to come out of other people's tragedies." Edward's green eyes have gone neutral as he listens, and I drop my gaze to the couch, pulling absently at a loose thread in the seam of the cushion. "There are people out there who can do it – who can report on things and make their entire professional lives about channeling the misfortune of others into information and disseminating it to the world. And I admire those people, the ones who do it for the right reasons, I really do. I just…I'm not sure I'm cut out to be one of them. I can't afford to get as attached to every person I photograph as I did with Seth, but I _want _to have that freedom. And the idea of taking a picture of someone like Seth and then seeing him get killed, or taking a photo of someone like you who _doesn't_ make it home…" I trail off and swallow. "I don't want my successes to come at the price of other people's hardships. I just…don't."

"Bella." Edward's voice is soft, gentle, and when I look up at his face, his eyes are the same. "Oh, Bella." His large hand reaches out and cups my jaw. "I love you."

"You…?" I trail off, feeling at once shocked and stupid for feeling shocked. "Really?"

He chuckles. "Yeah, really. And as has been the way with us, that doesn't even feel like the first time I've said it." His hand drops to mine, and he interlaces our fingers. "Maybe because I've been feeling it for so long."

"Yeah. Me too."

He looks at me expectantly, a teasing eyebrow cocked. "You too, what?"

I bite back a smile. "What do you mean?"

"Could you clarify that statement?"

I feign confusion. "Clarify what statement?"

Suddenly and without warning, he lurches forward and pins me against the couch cushions. "Bella."

"Edward."

"Say it."

"Say what?"

He presses his hips into me. "_Say it_. Out loud."

"Or?"

"Or…I won't _show_ you any more tonight."

"You're threatening to withhold sex if I don't tell you I love you?" He beams in triumph and I scowl. "Shit."

"Aw. That's so romantic."

"Bite me."

"Gladly." Still, he stays pressed up against me, his face expectant and slightly vulnerable despite my admission.

I smile softly up at him, infusing as much of the emotion into my eyes as I can before I link my hands together behind his neck. "I love you, Edward."

He grins and his whole body goes slack, and immediately I wonder if he actually doubted it for a second. I lock my ankles around the backs of his thighs, wind my arms around his shoulders, and pull him down to me. He buries his face in my neck as I hold on to him as tightly as I can. I love having sex with this man, love teasing him and cracking wise, love the banter and innuendo, but at this moment in time, with his vulnerability laid out in front of me, I realize that loving _him_ has become one of the biggest things in my life. And if I have my way, the coming week will be the absolute last time one of us leaves the country without the other one in the neighboring airplane seat.

"Does it make me a coward, not wanting to go over there and take those pictures?" I mumble into his neck.

"No," he says immediately, kissing my clavicle before pulling back and looking down into my face, his eyes earnest. "But I wouldn't care if it did."

"Says the honest-to-God hero," I snort.

"Bella. You're already a hero. What you did for Seth? What you want to do with your life? Those things already make you a hero. Heroes don't just wear fatigues and carry rifles. Rose is a hero for running, and people always think running makes people cowards, but sometimes it's the bravest thing you can do. My mother is a hero, and she sits in meetings all day, but those meetings change people's lives for the better. My father saves lives with a scalpel instead of a firearm. Jasper tries to lead people gently into living healthier lives so that they're still around to meet their grandkids. Your dad and your best friend and my brother are cops." He stares at me with such ferocity that I couldn't look away if I wanted to. "Heroism is in a person's personality, not his job description. And you couldn't be a coward if you tried." The vehemence in his voice makes my insides shake, and all I can do is nod into his chest as tears I don't even understand slip over my cheeks. And even though it makes no sense, even though it's the most impulsive thing I've ever felt, in that moment I'm pretty sure I'm going to marry him.

* * *

When I see Edward dressed to go out, I think the parts of me that have already had a considerable workout over the past twenty-four hours might actually explode. He was hot in fatigues, he was somehow hotter in faded jeans and a t-shirt, but seeing him in dark-rinse jeans and a charcoal gray sweater over a white dress shirt does things to me that I would have written off as romance novel drivel. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice me ogling him, busy as he is ogling me in return. And I can tell from the look in his eyes that he's having thoughts that are eerily similar to my own, which involve blowing off our dinner reservations and shedding our clothes.

"Wow," he says, his eyes trailing me from head to toe and making me quiver. "You look stunning."

"Ditto," I tell him, and he shakes his head.

"Seriously, Bella. You look beautiful." While the black skirt and violet top I'm wearing aren't nearly as fancy as the dress he saw a photo of, he does seem impressed.

"Thank you." He nods, scratching the side of his neck. "You ready?"

"Yeah. Just need to grab my purse."

"Okay."

Once outside, he makes his way to the passenger side of the truck, and I frown slightly. "You don't want to drive?"

Mirth-filled green eyes find mine. "I am driving, Bella. But I'm opening your door first."

"Oh," I say stupidly, and I realize that with the exception of my dad, I'm not sure I've ever actually had a guy open a car door for me before. How pathetic. "Thank you," I add as he swings the door open and takes my hand to help me in; I'm immediately grateful, as I went against my better instincts and wore heels tonight. The look Edward gave my legs when he saw them was more than worth the possibility of a rolled ankle. He shuts the door and jogs around to the driver's side door, sliding in and starting the ignition. "Where to, gumshoe?"

"Holy shit, that's a Carmen Sandiego reference," I say in lieu of giving him directions, and he grins.

"It's where I learned a lot of important geography."

"Ditto. It's the only reason I can find Jakarta on a map."

"Bella, don't say map."

"Huh?"

"I can't think about maps when the memory of your little Post-its game is still so fresh in my mind."

I smirk at him as I click my seat belt. "If high school geography had been more like that, I might have retained more details," I admit, and he growls. "What?" I ask.

"The idea of you doing that in high school," he says, and I chuckle.

"Don't worry. Prom night fumbler was about as much action as I saw in high school."

"Good," he says, and while I feel like I should be indignant about this very possessive and macho display, I'm really just enjoying it.

"Top of the street, make a left." Our conversation on the way to the restaurant is a fifty-fifty split of directions and me telling him a little background on Angela and Ben; by the time we pull into the parking lot of Ramsey's, Edward has heard the basics of how we met and what they do. I spot Ben's car in the lot, and as we step inside, I scan the crowd, my eyes finally alighting on Ben and Angela huddled at a small four-top table near the back.

"There they are," I tell Edward, and he nods, following me through the already-busy bar. As we approach the table, Angela glances up and sees me, grinning and rising as we draw near.

"And she surfaces!" she announces with a teasing flourish, and I feel only a mild tinge of embarrassment.

"Don't hate. Angela, Ben, this is Edward. Edward, my roommate, Angela, and her boyfriend, Ben."

Once handshakes and nice-to-meet-yous have been exchanged, Edward leans into my ear.

"What would you like to drink?"

"Vodka and cranberry?"

He nods and glances down to the table, where Angela and Ben's glasses are still nearly full. "Are you guys all set, or can I get you anything?"

"We're good," Ben replies, and Edward nods once before making his way back toward the bar.

"Wow, girl," Angela says as I lower myself into the seat beside her.

"What?"

"He _is_ hot."

"Thanks for that," Ben interjects, and she rolls her eyes but otherwise ignores him.

"You should see him with fewer clothes on," I say, as much to taunt Ben as to goad Angela, and her eyes widen behind the lenses of her glasses.

"Okay, I realize now is not the time, but once your ass is back from Gaza, I'm going to want details on that," she says, and I nod.

"You got it."

"Swell," Ben mutters as Edward returns with our drinks.

"That was fast," I say, accepting my glass, and he shrugs as he lowers himself into the last vacant chair. When I glance toward the bar, I realize immediately why it didn't take him long: the bartender is a chick, and she's still looking this way. I laugh, and Edward glances over at me.

"What?"

I shake my head. "Nothing."

"Okay." He takes a sip of his beer, and before anyone can kick-start the small talk, Angela leans across the tiny table, the flickering light of the tea light candle in the middle making her look slightly menacing.

"Listen, Edward, Bella and I have been friends for years, and forgive me for saying so, but I'm the only one who is solely in her corner, y'know? I mean, she's friends with your brother and his wife, and Rose is now pretty attached to your family too, from what I understand, so I guess I'm just saying…be cool, okay? Bella's my girl, and you might be all Army guy and capable of blowing me up and making it look like my engine exploded, but I'll find a way to make your life difficult if you screw this up."

Edward, to his credit, appears mildly amused by Angela's diatribe but nods solemnly. "I understand. And you have my word: I have absolutely no intention of doing anything to screw this up." As he speaks, his hand finds my leg and cups my knee, and I feel warm both at his admission and at the sensation of his warm palm around my kneecap.

"Okay," Angela says simply, leaning back. "Cool." She takes a sip of her drink. "So, Chicago, huh? Cubs or White Sox?"

The majority of the evening passes in an easy fashion; once the get-to-know-you talk subsides, Ben and Edward delve deeper into the sports talk while Angela begins peppering me with questions about my upcoming trip as well as occasional whispered inquiries into how things are going with Edward, and how things will work after I get back. By the time the bartenders are announcing last call, I look down at my watch in surprise: I had only intended to stay for a few drinks to give Angela and Ben a chance to meet Edward, but the night has run away with me and it's almost two in the morning. When I glance over at Edward, his cheeks and ears are pink and his eyelids are heavy. When he sees me looking, he beams, his grin dopey, and I jab an accusing finger in his face.

"Edward Cullen, you're wasted!"

He giggles, and it's as much of an admission as any words could be. "Okay." He holds up a finger. "It's possible I may have imbibed a bit. But—" He leans toward me slightly "—I haven't had more than one beer in a sitting in about a year, and all I had to eat today was a sweet roll." He pauses, and his silly grin turns a shade darker. "Well. That's not _all_ I ate today." The embers that have seemed to smolder low in my belly for twenty-four hours kindle, and flames begin to lick their way up my spine. Edward leans a little closer, bringing his lips to my ear so that when he talks, my hair dances on his breath. "And Bella?"

"Hm?"

"Believe me when I tell you that I'm not one of those guys who can't get it up when he's hammered." As if to punctuate his point, he grabs my hand and brings it to his lap. Sure enough, he's at least partially hard. Thankfully, Angela and Ben are working on pretty good buzzes of their own, so they're blissfully unaware of the fact that I'm groping Edward two feet away.

"We're going to head out," Angela announces, and I tear my gaze from Edward's lascivious leer to nod at her.

"Okay. Are you guys calling a cab?"

She shakes her head. "We walked over."

"Oh, right," I reply. I'd forgotten that Ben's apartment was just around the corner from here. "Okay." I stand on legs wobbly with alcohol and lust and lean forward, hugging my friend and her boyfriend in farewell. Before I can sit back down, Angela grabs me by my biceps and stares into my face. Her eyes, despite being slightly more dilated than normal, are serious.

"Be careful, Bella. Promise me."

"I promise," I say, her words having a slightly sobering effect.

"I'm serious. I know you love taking pictures, but no photo is worth your life. Got it?"

"Got it," I say, and she nods in satisfaction as I feel Edward rise beside me to bid them farewell. As I watch them make their way toward the exit, I sit back down beside him and smile. "They like you."

He shrugs. "What's not to like?" He bestows upon me another goofy grin, and I chuckle. Drunk Edward is adorable. Drunk Edward is also apparently a bit of a randy bastard, if the way his hand is inching up my thigh is any indication.

"We should probably call a cab."

"Why?"

"Neither of us is in any shape to drive," I tell him, and he shakes his head.

"No shit. Can't we walk?"

"It's like seven blocks to my house from here," I remind him, and he squints into the middle distance as he appears to calculate this in his head.

"How long does it take to walk seven blocks?" he asks, and I smile as I still his hand, the fingertips of which have just begun to creep beneath the hem of my skirt.

"Probably about thirty minutes."

"Yeah," he says after a moment's consideration. "I'm going to need to be inside of you sooner than that."

A flash of heat, and my fingers fumble as I dig my cell phone out and scan through my contacts list for the number of the cab company. As I press the "call" button, Edward's mouth is at my neck, my whimper swallowed by the buzz of the bar patrons still finishing up their last rounds.

"Hi," I squeak when the dispatcher answers and clear my throat before trying again. Edward's mouth moves up slightly, pulling the skin just beneath my earlobe between his teeth. "Hi, I, um, need a cab. Ramsey's." As I give the dispatcher the pertinent information, Edward continues his assault on my neck, pulling the neckline of my shirt down slightly to kiss and bite the muscle leading to my shoulder. I groan and tilt my head slightly away from him in unspoken permission. He scoots his chair closer and his hand disappears beneath the table, once again finding the skin of my thigh. As I end the call, his hand slides up my leg to the point at which I'd stopped him earlier, his fingertips just beneath the hem. "Ten minutes," I tell him, and he grunts. "They'll call when they get here," I add, grateful that we don't have to stand outside on the curb. While Edward clearly appreciates my choice of wardrobe, short sleeves may have been ever-so-slightly too optimistic for April in Seattle.

"Okay," he breathes against my skin, and his hand slides farther up. I clamp my knees together and he pulls back, looking into my eyes, and the slightly red rims of his only serve to make his irises look a more vivid green. "I want to touch you," he says, "so this is your once chance to tell me you don't want me to. Otherwise, I'm going to make you come in this bar." He leans in and kisses me, deep and sensual and full of promise. Pulling back, he kisses my cheek and my temple before pressing a kiss to the shell of my ear. "Do you want to come, Bella?"

"Yes," I say before I can think about the implications of my answer, the word pushed from my lips on a wave of need and arousal. Without a word, he grabs the leg of my chair and pulls it closer to his before his hand once again settles on my leg.

"Spread your legs," he whispers into my ear and I comply, letting my knees splay like the wanton hooker he makes me. "Good girl," he rumbles, his fingertips grazing my inner thighs, and oh, I like drunk hornball Edward. I like him a lot.

A small gasp falls from my lips when his fingers press to the damp cotton crotch of my underwear, and he hums low in his throat. "If I had a rubber in my wallet, I'd pull you into my lap and take you right here," he says, and the fabric beneath his fingertips grows even wetter. "I'd push up this sexy little skirt and slide your panties to one side and make you ride me where anybody could see us." I'm suddenly exceedingly frustrated about the shitty timing of my gynecologist appointment the month before and the subsequent delay in the effects of the pill, even if the likelihood that I'd actually screw him in a bar is pretty low. "But I'll settle for finger-fucking you here," he says, a fingertip hooking around the crotch of my underwear and pulling it to one side. He stills for a moment, my underwear pushed aside and the most intimate part of me wet and wanting and exposed to the comparatively cool air of the bar, and in that moment I feel wanton and shameless and so fucking turned on that I think I could come from the sheer anticipation. He maintains his stillness for a moment before a probing finger finds my clit and I hiss, grabbing the edge of the table as my eyes flick around at the gradually thinning crowd. With my last coherent thought, I hope Edward pushes me over the edge before they turn the overhead lights back on to usher everyone out. I feel his now-slick fingertip sliding up and down my slit, teasing my clit and dipping down before circling back up again. "Spread your legs wider," he all but growls into my ear, and I do as directed, feeling increasingly turned on as I surrender control to his demands. Another pass over my clit and then he slides down toward my entrance, sliding one long finger inside my body and I exhale, leaning back in my chair. He smirks, sliding his finger back out to rub my clit again. "Look at me," he breathes, and yet again I do as I'm told like the submissive girlfriend that in this moment I am. He watches my face as he pushes two fingers into me, and I moan softly before he retreats again. Then I feel three fingertips at my entrance and he pauses for a beat, still looking into my face for any signs of protest before he pushes forward, filling me and stretching me, and my eyes fall closed for a breath before I remember his command and open them again to watch his eyes, which flash as he slowly slides those three fingers in and out of me. "I can't wait to get you home," he murmurs, his thumb finding my clit as his three fingers work me. "I want you so badly. I've wanted you since you came down the stairs in this little skirt and those fuck-me heels." His fingers are still slipping slowly in and out of me, and I shift my hips slightly in response, lifting almost imperceptibly to meet his hand. "Do you want that?"

"Yes," I whisper.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I want you to fuck me."

"How, Bella? How do you want me to fuck you?"

"However you want," I gasp, feeling the slow buzz start to work its way up my spine. "Whatever you want."

"Hm, whatever I want?" He is crooking his fingers inside me now, dragging deliciously along all the right spots, and at this point I really would let him do whatever he wanted, as long as he doesn't stop making me feel like this.

"Please," I gasp, my hips moving as much as possible without alerting everyone nearby to what we're doing, and suddenly his face softens.

"Oh, Bella, anything. I'll give you anything."

"Please," I plead again, though I don't know what I'm asking for other than for him to send me shattering, and suddenly he thrusts his fingers deep into me and curls them, holding them steady and hitting the spot that he now knows the exact location of, and I come apart in my chair, pleasure wringing my body taut as I shudder and clench around him, my one hand gripping the edge of my chair while the other finds his wrist, stilling his motions as I break apart around his hand. My body goes boneless, and as his hand slips from my panties, I struggle even to close my legs.

"God, Bella," he breathes into my neck, pressing tender kisses to the soft skin. "That was so unbelievably hot. I want you so badly right now."

I run my hand up his denim-clad thigh and to his lap, where I feel his erection straining against his jeans. He hisses as I palm him through the material, and I'm debating the logistics of pulling his dick out through his fly when my phone illuminates on the tabletop, alerting us to the arrival of our ride.

"Cab's here," I tell him, rising on shaky legs, and I hear him curse behind me as he rises and tugs on the hem of his sweater in a vain attempt to hide his erection. I spin to press the length of my body to his as I slide the strap of my purse over my shoulder. "I'll take care of you," I promise him, pressing a kiss to his mouth before crooking a finger through the belt loop of his jeans and leading him toward the door. Before we step out on to the sidewalk, I turn and circle my arms around his neck, pressing my chest to his and taking his mouth in a kiss infused with as much suggestion as I can give it before pulling back. "And you were right, by the way."

"About what?" he asks, slightly breathless as his eyes gaze down at me, the heat in them at odds with the gentle way he tucks my hair behind my ear.

"You're very good at giving orders, Major Cullen." I turn to stride out the door, and I know without looking that he's following right behind me. And more than likely watching my ass as I go.

* * *

_A/N: Happy holidays. Thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone who recommended this story; you are all lovely. And, as requested, a special shout-out to my readers in Brazil. *waves*_


	9. Chapter 9: Jet Lag

**Departures**

**Summary: **"Come back to me."

**Rating: **M

**Acknowledgement:** HollettLA may not be First Class in United Airlines' book, but she sure as sugar is in mine. xo

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Jet Lag**

Warm.

Soft.

Hard.

Smooth.

Rough.

Waking up next to Edward is a carnival of sensation, and most of it – to my delight – is touch-related. The things not solely tactile are complemented by it: the soft lilt of his breathing paired with the steady touch and retreat of his chest against my back; the smell of his skin enhanced by the warmth of it against my own.

In the cocoon of his embrace, I forcibly pull my mind away from itemizing the wonders of sleeping Edward and redirect my efforts to silently ticking over the items on my to-do list for the day, glad that I did as much of my packing as possible before Edward even arrived in Seattle. With the exception of my toiletries and a few clothing items, my bag is just about ready. Besides those last-minute packing details, I need to call Charlie. I need to touch base with Brian. I need to … But in this moment, there's nothing I want or need to do more than stay right where I am, enveloped in Edward's arms, feeling his warm breaths in my hair and his warm skin against my body. I watch as dust motes dance on the beam of sunlight sliding through my bedroom window, marveling at the fact that Seattle – _Seattle_ – has been sunny for three straight days. The city has a bit of a bum rap when it comes to weather, but reputations exist for a reason, and Seattle is deserving of that reputation more often than not. For what is probably the thousandth time, I curse the shitty luck that has me leaving the country just as Edward comes back into it. Why the hell am I doing this again?

Oh, right. My career. The career I've wanted since I was eighteen but which I'm ninety-eight percent sure I don't want anymore.

And yet.

Two percent. There's two percent of me that stops me from just picking up the phone and calling Brian Kohler and saying, "Thanks, but no thanks." It's the two percent of me that resisted accepting a job with the Hurt Heroes group right off the bat, the two percent of me that isn't willing to walk away without knowing for damn sure what it is I'm walking away _from._ I owe at least that much to eighteen-year-old Bella, to the Bella I've been for ten years, the Bella I was until Edward Cullen pulled his earbud out of his ear and said, "This seat's open." I owe it to myself, but as true as that is, I don't want to go.

Edward's hold tightens slightly, and I smile into the morning sun. At least I know what I'm walking _toward_, even if I don't know from which direction I'm coming quite yet. I shift back into his arms slightly, and he grumbles in protest at the movement. I should get up. The clock on the nightstand tells me that my usual rising hour has come and gone, and it's time to start checking items off my pre-trip list. Edward's breathing has gone back to the deep, undisturbed rhythm of sleep, and I let my eyes drift closed.

Five more minutes.

* * *

I scratch through the second-to-last item on my to-do list – "call Brian" – and scan over it once more. While talking to him, Brian informed me that Dale, the photographer whom I was supposed to shadow, was no longer able to make the trip, as his wife went into labor six weeks early and the family of three were now staying in the NICU of a Seattle hospital. Despite my sympathy for Dale, not to mention my doubts about my own career path, the prospect of tailing Brian and seeing how a veteran photojournalist operates in the trenches thrills me.

The golden light of the setting sun filters through the kitchen window, bathing the room in amber, and I glance at the clock on the wall. Edward should probably be back by now. He borrowed my truck to run to the grocery store for dinner fixings and to "run a few errands."

Just as I'm debating whether it would be strange for me to buzz his cell phone, I hear the sound of my less-than-quiet truck pulling into the driveway. I smile to myself at the hollow thud of the truck's door slamming and the subsequent sounds of footfalls on the porch steps. When the door swings open, my grin is mirrored on Edward's face.

"Hey," he says, dropping reusable grocery bags on the counter along with my keys.

"Hey," I say, turning back to my list once more as his arms band around my waist.

"I missed you," he murmurs, pressing his lips to the hinge of my jaw.

"I thought I was crazy for missing you over the course of an hour," I reply, and I hear him chuckle.

"Table for two."

I lean back into him slightly and sigh. "I wish my cell was going to work in Gaza," I say, dropping my list and pen to the counter and turning in his arms to face him. "I could have e-mailed you."

He offers me a small smile. "Ten days of radio silence," he muses. "This will be a challenge."

"They say absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"Well, whoever _they_ are underestimated how fond of you I am when you're very much present," he says. "I have a hard time imagining being any fonder of you than I am right now. Or than I was last night." His cheeky grin makes me flush.

"Did you get everything you needed?" I ask in a rather obvious attempt to redirect the conversation; if we fall back into bed now, we won't leave it until I have to go to the airport tomorrow morning, and I still have to call Charlie.

He releases me and nods. "Yeah. I stopped by Jasper's because he asked me to pick up some milk for them; he's in the dog house because he got Sophie a puppy for her birthday and neglected to mention it to Alice."

"Whoops," I say, watching as he takes our carton of milk out of one of the bags and pulls open the refrigerator door, stashing it in the rack.

"Yeah," he replies, returning his hand to the bag and withdrawing a tub of sour cream which finds its way to the top fridge shelf. "He's going to be hearing about that one for a while."

"Alice doesn't like dogs?" I ask, watching as he deposits a block of cheese into the deli drawer.

"She loves dogs," he replies. "I think it's more the not-telling-her part of it. She hates surprises. Particularly surprises with the potential to chew up her favorite shoes."

"Makes sense."

He eyes me as he pulls a head of lettuce out of the bag and tosses it between his hands. "Dog person or cat person?"

I grin. Sometimes I love the fact that we don't know everything about each other. "Dog person," I reply. "I've wanted one since I was a kid, but I work too much. You?"

"Dog person," he echoes. "Wanted one since I was a kid, but until recently I was gone too much." He grins.

I return his smile and watch as an onion and an avocado emerge from the bag. "What are we having for dinner, anyway?"

"Tacos," he replies. "I make killer tacos."

"Nice."

He holds up a taco kit with flour tortillas and crunchy corn shells. "Do you like them hard or soft?" I grin, and he flushes slightly before a mischievous glint rises in his eyes. "Be very careful, Bella Swan. We're not in an airport terminal now; any innuendo you come up with can and will be used against you."

"I think we both know I like them hard," I say, ignoring his warning altogether, and his eyes darken.

"Okay. You asked for it." He lunges for me and I squeal as his shoulder makes contact with my waist, his hands banding around my thighs. I yelp for real when he straightens with me bent over his shoulder, his warm hands bracing my legs as my feet leave the floor.

Once I regain my composure, I cup his denim-clad ass in my hands. "Great view from this angle," I say, trying valiantly to maintain any kind of edge even as he's got me tossed over his shoulder like a proverbial cavewoman. I hear him chuckle and one hand leaves my thigh to slap my ass cheek.

"Not too shabby from this side, either," he says, abandoning the groceries and the kitchen and navigating his way carefully through the living room and up the stairs. "Though I can't think of an angle I don't like to look at you from."

"Charmer," I say, watching the stairs as the very ends of my hair nearly drag along them. "I really shouldn't encourage this type of Neanderthal possessiveness. I'm a woman of the millennium; I'm supposed to demand things like chivalry and wooing."

"I'm fairly certain that most women of the millennium favor multiple orgasms over flowers," he replies, pushing the door to my bedroom open. "I've seen 'Sex and the City' – I know how you girls prioritize."

I laugh as he dumps me onto the mattress and hovers over me, his green eyes sparkling in the dim light. "Very true."

He smirks. "Hey, Bella?"

"Hey, Edward?"

"Get naked."

We shed clothes hastily, and once he's bare, he reaches beneath me and drags the quilt and sheets down and off, dumping them on the floor at the foot of the bed. I quirk one eyebrow at him and he lowers himself to me, pressing every inch of his body to mine. "I don't want anything in the way," he murmurs, finding my mouth with his as I run my palms up and down over the broad expanse of his back, relishing the feel of his warm skin as he shudders slightly in my arms. We kiss and lick and touch, and he sheathes himself and aligns himself in the cradle of my hips, watching my eyes as he pushes his body into mine. Inside me, he stills.

"I love you," he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine as his eyes fall closed. "God, I love you."

"I love you too," I whisper, clutching him with my arms and my legs and my body as I stare at his closed eyes, unwilling to miss even a moment of this. "I'm crazy in love with you."

He sighs and pulls back, gazing down into my face with every ounce of his adoration evident in his eyes. I've had sex before, even made love before, but I've never _felt_ more loved than I do in this moment, as he watches me and smoothes my hair back from my forehead. Reluctant to move his hips, he runs his hand down from my head to my shoulder before his fingertips find my nipple and he rolls it gently, studying my face for a breath before lowering his head to take the pebbled flesh into his mouth. I sigh, watching his pink tongue trace a circle around the bud before his lips close around it and he sucks; when I whimper and shift my hips beneath his, he hums. He shifts and moves to my other breast, lavishing the same attention on my other nipple before lifting his head once again and slipping his hands beneath my body; they slide up my back and beneath my shoulder blades, his fingers curling around my shoulders.

"Bella," he murmurs, and when I shift my hips again, he takes the silent cue to begin moving. His movements are slow, the length of him sliding steadily in and out of me, his hands curling around my shoulders to pull my body into his every thrust, and I moan in appreciation. Even with the acrobatic sex, the different positions, the varying speeds we've tried over the past few days, somehow I feel more possessed by him in this moment than I ever have. "Bella," he murmurs again, and I lock my ankles together behind his thighs.

"Edward," I reply, and his pace increases slightly as he gazes down at me, his eyes burning. I'm so turned on, so aroused, so possessed that there's no doubt I want to come, but as I watch him watch me, as I watch him own me, I think that perhaps I want to just keep doing this all night, keep feeling him inside me, keep watching him love me until the sun chases the moon from the sky and I have to leave him.

He breaks my stare to press his lips to my forehead, then my temple, then my cheekbone, soft, lingering kisses that are gentle and contradictory to the steady rhythm of his hips. He kisses my jaw, my chin, my nose before pulling back slightly and meeting my eye for a breath, then lowering his head to kiss my lips. He slows his hips to match the rhythm of his mouth, languid and lazy, and I can tell from the change that we are on the same page about not wanting this to end.

Still, biology ultimately wins out, and the pace of his hips quickens slightly. I mimic his movements, pressing soft kisses to the point of his chin, the scruff of his jaw; when he drops his head momentarily to watch himself sliding in and out of me, I kiss his forehead, his temple, his soft hair. My hands slide from his shoulders to his head, my fingers threading through the coppery strands, and he brings his eyes back to mine, his fingers tightening around the bones of my shoulders.

"I love you," he whispers again, his thrusts coming harder and faster as he surrenders to the desire for blissful oblivion.

"So much," I murmur, rocking my hips to meet his thrusts, and his eyes don't leave my face as he groans, driving into my body, breathless pants falling from his lips as I climb ever higher.

"Come back to me," he pants, pinning me with his gaze as if my response will be the deciding factor in his release.

"I will," I vow, breathless. "I promise I will."

* * *

Brian has wandered off under the guise of checking our flight status on the departures board, and I'm grateful for the moment of privacy to say good-bye to Edward, who is wearing the same jeans and t-shirt combination he wore when I picked him up from this very airport four days ago. Four days that feel at once shorter and longer. As we stand facing each other, my left hand intertwined with his right, he grins down at me before reaching behind him and grabbing something from the back pocket of his jeans. He hands me a stack of envelopes tied together with a crisscross of string.

"What's this?" I ask as I take the bundle, which is warm and slightly creased from where he's been sitting on it.

"Your words kept me sane while I was on the other side of the world," he says, his eyes darting from the letters to my face and back again. "I guess I'm returning the favor."

I turn the stack over in my hands. "Thank you."

"There are rules, though."

"Rules?"

"One a day. There's one letter for each day you're going to be gone. And you can read one today, but not until after you leave."

"You should know that self-discipline isn't always my strongest personality trait."

"I have faith in you."

I smile. "I'll try to live up to it."

The anxiety he's tried unsuccessfully to hide every time Gaza has come up in the past few days resurfaces, chasing the playfulness from his beautiful face as he reaches up and cups my jaw. "Remember what I said, Bella."

"You've said a lot of things over the past four days, Edward." I tilt my head slightly, pressing my cheek more firmly into his palm.

"About Rosalie." I wasn't expecting that, and my brow creases in confusion. "Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is run," he says, and his eyes are serious as his thumb traces my jaw line. "If you need to run, run. Don't be brave. Don't second-guess. Run."

"When I try to run, I often trip over my own two feet," I say, trying unsuccessfully to lighten the mood.

"Promise me," he says, ignoring my words altogether.

"I promise."

He nods once before drawing his right hand away from me and to the neckline of his shirt, which he stretches slightly as he reaches beneath it. When his fist emerges once again, it's clutching his dog tags, which he draws up and over his head. Gazing at me for a beat, he holds the chain open and slips them over my head, pulling out the neckline of my own shirt and dropping them beneath it. I can feel the residual warmth from his skin settle against my own chest, right above the steady beat of my heart. His arms once again clamp around my back and he ducks his head, pressing his forehead to mine as his eyes fall closed. I take a breath to stare at him, so close that he's slightly out of focus, before I close my own eyes.

"Come back," he murmurs, and for a brief moment it's January and it's a different airport and it's me saying those exact words.

"I will," I reply, an echo of his own promise.

* * *

Once I'm buckled into my airplane seat – a window seat, thank God – and Brian is settled in the one beside me and is talking in low tones into his cell phone, I glance down at my carry-on bag, and at the small stack of envelopes poking out the top of the side mesh pocket.

Sliding the first lined sheet of paper out of its envelope, I feel a lump rise in my throat as I unfold it. This is the first time I'm seeing his handwriting since I saw his overseas address scrawled hastily on a scrap of paper, and it's so Edward I can't help but smile: block lettering, precise and neat, slanted slightly to the right as if his thoughts are coming faster than his words and he's trying to keep up despite not wanting his penmanship to get sloppy.

. . .

_Monday_

_My Bella,_

_You've probably just settled into your airplane seat, buckled yourself in, and are waiting for takeoff, because while I may not have known you ALL that long, something tells me that you're the kind of girl who follows the rules but only barely. So while you waited until you were technically gone to start this first letter, you're only just out the door. Suffice to say, I already miss you. In only four days, I've gotten used to the presence of you: the way you smell like light, the way you breathe slow and steady, the way you seem to take up all the space in the room with your tiny body simply because I can't see anything else when you're around._

_I was pretty sure I was in love with you before I ever set foot back on American soil, but the past four days have driven that point home with alarming finality. I hope that doesn't freak you out, but if it does, too bad. You're stuck with me now, Bella Swan, and I don't shake easy._

_As I write this, you're asleep beside me; it took every ounce of strength I possess to slip out of your arms to put pen to paper, because I spent enough time sleeping alone and I don't want to miss even a second of your warm, sleeping body pressed up against mine. I might like the feel of your sleeping body nearly as much as I like the feeling of your very, very awake body, but I thank God there's no need for me to ever choose between the two. You're beautiful in the sunlight, you're beautiful beneath the dim lights of a bar, you're beautiful under fluorescent airport lighting that makes most other people look sallow and washed out, but like this, all soft and peaceful in silver-blue moonlight, you are breathtaking._

_I thank a God that some days I'm not sure I even believe in for plopping you and your heavy backpack into my figurative lap four months ago. I thank my mother for planting the mantra of moment-catching in my brain that refused to allow me to let you walk away. I thank the weather gods for dumping a ton of snow on Chicago in January, and United Airlines for putting their departure gates for Seattle and New York beside each other. And I thank you for being so beautifully open to chance that you didn't dismiss the possibility of something so seemingly unlikely. _

_Come home to me._

_Love,_

_Edward_

. . .

I re-read the letter over and over, so completely spellbound by his words that the next time I think to take notice of my immediate surroundings, we are at cruising altitude. I blink against the moisture in my eyes and gaze out into blinding sunlight, hurtling toward a future I once thought I wanted more than anything.

* * *

_Tuesday_

_My Bella,_

_Teenage boys are not in the habit of waxing poetic about love. Well, most teenage boys, anyway. Particularly teenage boys with two older brothers who would take any and every opportunity to pick on their youngest sibling. Which is all a roundabout way of saying that even as a teenage boy bulldozed by hormones, I was not given to fits of flowery language about amorous pursuits of the heart. _

_My parents always had a very steady kind of love. They didn't throw it in anyone's face, they didn't showcase it like it was something to be put on display, they just…were. Their love was constant, and we came to expect it as we expected the sun to rise each morning: it was a given. It didn't even come to my awareness that that was a rarity until I was nine and the parents of one of my classmates were getting a divorce. _

_Anyway, I remember once when I was about sixteen, and I was reading _Romeo and Juliet_ for my sophomore English class in the living room while my father was watching _Seinfeld_. Typically irreverent teenager that I was, I snorted in derision at something particularly flowery, and my father muted the television. "What's the problem?"_

_To which I replied with something sardonic like, "This is so bogus."_

"_What's 'bogus'?" he asked._

"_This type of love. This stupid fairy tale stuff. This doesn't exist in real life. Reading this is a waste of time."_

"_It exists," my father said, his words simple, his tone matter-of-fact. _

_Like most teenagers, I enjoyed any opportunity to contradict figures of authority, so I replied with something along the lines of, "How do you know?"_

_During this exchange, my mother was in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher. We could just see her through the small breakfast window in the wall separating the two rooms, her head disappearing and reappearing as she bent to retrieve plates and cups and silverware and then put them away. At my question, my dad looked toward the breakfast window, to where my mother was oblivious to our conversation. After a beat, he tilted his head in her direction._

"_There," he said. "That's how I know."_

_A part of me has never let go of that memory, of my father's steady conviction, of my parents' quiet, effortless, unwavering love. It's been the model by which I measured everything, the yardstick to which I constantly compared, and nothing ever measured up._

_Until you._

_Come home to me._

_Love,_

_Edward_

. . .

"How did you do it?" I ask Brian, gazing up at the moon that is hidden from Edward's sky.

"Do what?" he asks, gently cleaning dust from one of his lenses, his camera equipment strewn out on the blanket behind him.

"Decide this was the life for you," I clarify, still staring up at the heavens.

I hear him sigh. "It wasn't easy," he admits, placing a lens cap over the 200mm lens and picking up the telephoto one to give it the same treatment. "But it helped that the woman I wanted chose the same kind of life." At that, I turn to face him, trying to mask the surprise on my face at his ability to cut to the root of my issue so quickly. At his small smile, it's pretty clear that I'm unsuccessful. "You've met Charlotte. She's a junkie for this stuff, just like I am. As soon as we started getting serious, she spelled it out for me pretty clearly. She loved the job. She _was_ the job. She didn't want babies, she didn't want a home-by-five, dinner-on-the-table, lazy-Sunday-mornings-together type of life. She wanted this type of life." He shrugs. "I probably could have gone either way, but more than I wanted anything else, I wanted her. Everything else was secondary. And the more I immersed myself in this life, the more I realized that it was perfect for me." He caps the telephoto lens and stashes it in his bag. "But it's not perfect for everyone."

I sigh, fiddling with the strap of my own camera bag. "I feel sort of ridiculous. I've wanted this for so long, and all of a sudden, I have a shot at it and I'm hesitating."

He shrugs. "If we all wanted what we wanted when we were young, I'd be a cowboy and Charlotte's most prized possession would be _Charlie's Angels_ day-of-the-week underwear. We grow up. We change. What we want changes. Nothing wrong with it." At my exprssion of doubt, he zips his bag and sets it on his lap, propping his elbows on it. "Bella, you're very talented. You can live a life behind the camera, no matter where you are; what's on the other side of the lens is entirely up to you."

I nod, embarrassed by his praise even as his complete lack of judgment soothes the insecurities that have been plaguing me since the first hint of uncertainty crept into my mind at my hesitation to accept this job. _We grow up. We change. What we want changes. _

I know what I want. I want a home-by-five, babies, lazy-Sunday-mornings-together type of life.

I want Edward.

* * *

_Wednesday_

_My Bella,_

_I'm a science nerd. I think it's something you should probably have been told right off the bat, but true to form, the man I am was completely distracted by words like "condoms" and "bedroom" falling effortlessly from your beautiful mouth. That said, I'm a science geek, completely and utterly. I find science-related documentaries endlessly fascinating, and I always clean up in the science categories on _Jeopardy!_ When I was a kid, my letters to Santa generally included things like microscopes and rock tumblers and dissection kits and solar system replicas. In fact, one of my favorite gifts I ever got was the telescope that my parents bought me for my tenth birthday, through which I would spend hours gazing at stars and constellations. I'd like to be able to inject a witty side note here about how I ogled the cute teenage girl who lived next door through her bedroom window at night, but my bedroom faced the backyard, and all I saw was darkness and stars. That said, I understand completely what you mean about the time difference making the distance feel greater. I wish you were looking at the stars at the same moment I am, but I'll settle for taking you home to Chicago with me and showing you my telescope (not a euphemism) and telling you how once upon a time I thought the stars and the galaxies and everything else beyond our own sky were the most breathtaking things I'd ever seen._

_Then came you._

_And here's where I get even more geeky on you. Intro-level chemistry, sophomore year of high school. Mr. Fisher talking about chemical bonds in general, and covalent bonds in particular. For those of us not fluent in dorky scientific terminology, a covalent bond is one in which atoms share electrons; for many molecules, sharing electrons enables them to obtain a full outer shell. _

_In layman's terms, molecules find their missing pieces in order to make themselves whole._

_Like I said: then came you._

_Come home to me._

_Love,_

_Edward_

_P.S. – Don't even get me started on other chemical results, because even after four days, I'm pretty sure you and I could write the textbook on explosive reactions._

. . .

A young teenager's body.

I remember Edward's e-mail about encountering the body of a dead child; reading it had filled me with sadness, but that sadness was nothing when compared with this moment, as I stand with my camera dangling from my hand, staring down at the most horrific result imaginable of a nighttime air strike. My stomach rolls, my heart stutters in my chest, and my palm grows slick against my camera as my eyes stay glued to the small form.

This isn't the story I want to tell.

I turn away as my stomach empties itself. At the edges of my awareness, I hear the clicking shutter of Brian's camera.

* * *

_Thursday_

_My Bella,_

_There are a lot of things we haven't discussed. While I feel like we were able to cross a lot of things off that list in just four days – and, in fact, in the four months before that – there are still a lot of things to learn. I realize this, and I realize that nothing about what we have is what one would consider typical. I don't care. If there's one thing love has never been called in all of the rock songs and rom-coms, it's typical. _

_Love is supposed to be extraordinary. Unexpected. Atypical. _

_I've been making a lot of plans for us, even if a lot of them are still only in my mind. I had a hard time sleeping soundly in the desert, thanks to a combination of factors that included alertness and climate, and more often than not, on the nights I lay awake, I thought of you. I thought of all of the things I wanted to experience with you, all of the things I wanted to learn about you, all of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Now that I'm home, with you, I sleep better; that said, I still find myself awake, relishing the feel, the smell, the very presence of you. My plans run away with me as I doze between your sheets: thoughts of a lifetime of nights spent exactly this way, of mornings waking up to you._

_Confession #1: I was irritated when Alice and Jasper rather spectacularly cockblocked us immediately upon my arrival, but when I saw you standing in their kitchen with Sophie on your hip, something settled deep in my chest that I'd never felt before. _

_Confession #2: That was the first time I thought about having babies with you._

_Come home to me._

_Love,_

_Edward_

. . .

If there was any lingering doubt that I no longer want this life, it's eradicated at that last line. I imagine myself round and swollen with Edward's baby – _mine_ and Edward's baby – and the mere thought of leaving even a hypothetical child behind to chase danger makes me feel anxious and nauseous and a million other unpleasant things.

I know now, without a doubt, that the future I want no longer has anything to do with telling stories of pain and hardship. The future I want has everything to do with joy.

* * *

_Friday_

_My Bella,_

_By the time you read this, you will have been gone for five days, and I imagine that by this point I'll feel like I could burst. Not with sexual tension (though it's sure to be in there), but with anxiety. In four days, I have gotten used to touching you. Seeing you. Breathing you. Having you near. Knowing you're going to be so far away in an area fraught with danger makes me feel helpless in a way I'm not accustomed to feeling. My logical brain knew I'd feel this way before I even got here, and I believe I told you as much, but actually feeling it is a million times different._

_I've already learned that it's far easier to be the one leaving than the one left behind._

_That said, you've been out there for five days trying on this life you've wanted for years, and despite your claim that you changed your mind, I want you to know something: if you haven't, it's okay. If these days in Gaza have confirmed in your mind that this is what you want, that this is how you want to spend your life, it's okay. I want you to feel free to come home bright-eyed with excitement, pumped full of adrenaline, high on life because you've found your calling and you just landed your dream job. If you feel those things, I need you to promise me that you won't feel an ounce of regret on my behalf, that you won't downplay it or struggle with the decision of whether or not to tell me. Of whether or not to take the job._

_I want you. I'll always want you, and I don't care if your business address is downtown Seattle or the Middle East. We'll make it work; you have my word. Want whatever you want professionally, as long as you want me personally. Everything else is just logistics._

_Come home to me (for however long)._

_Love,_

_Edward_

. . .

I wish I could pick up the phone and put his mind at ease. I wish I could e-mail him and tell him that in five days' time, I'll be home with him and I won't be leaving again. I want to tell him that it wasn't a choice between him and this career I thought I wanted; it was a choice between two versions of myself. I want to tell him that he already makes me the best version of myself I can be. It's like the old Army slogan: Be All You Can Be.

I want to tell him that all I want to be is his.

* * *

_Saturday_

_My Bella,_

_I'll never tire of the feel of your body around mine. Never. For the first time in my life, I'm actually tempted to give Jasper's way of doing things a try. I'd like nothing more than to be inside you for hours on end._

_You are in the shower, and if I were a seventeen-year-old, I'd be joining you in there for Round I've-Lost-Count, but I need some time to recover and finding moments to write these letters to you in between all of the moments I spend pressed up against you in some way is surprisingly difficult. I don't want to peel myself away from you for even a second, but I want you to have these words of mine when you're too far away to hear them in person. _

_I love you._

_In one of our first e-mails, I think we said something along the lines of "it doesn't make sense, but it's there all the same." I can't remember if I said it or if you said it, but nothing has ever felt more true to me than that: I love you, and it might not make sense, but it's there. I was so surprised by you – your smart mouth, your bright eyes, your sharp wit – so completely surprised and bulldozed and railroaded that I threw logic to the wind, and I thank God that I did. What a story we'll have._

_I think I'm done recuperating. Just the thought of you covered in bubbles and swallowed by steam has me hard and wanting you, ready for Round I've-Lost-Count-Plus-One. "Surely it can't always be like this" …but something tells me it just might. And you should know that I'll be buying you Post-its every Christmas._

_Come home to me._

_Love,_

_Edward_

. . .

Now I know what it means to be hot for reasons unrelated to the climate. I almost feel badly for my sexually-charged e-mails to him while _he_ was away.

Almost.

* * *

_Sunday_

_My Bella,_

_You should know that my parents want to meet you. My mother was about five minutes away from getting on a plane with me and flying to Seattle to meet you in person; I'm fairly certain it was my father's interference that diverted that possibility from becoming a reality. That said, I wouldn't put it past her to decide that she absolutely MUST see her darling granddaughter sometime in the near future and therefore make a trip to Seattle under the guise of that exact purpose. I'm apologizing now. I adore my mother; while I certainly don't fit the mold of the so-called "mama's boy" that generally sends sane women running for the hills, my mother and I are close in the way I think is typical of mothers and their youngest children. She's a great mom and an amazing woman, and I think you'd like her. That said, if you're not ready for the force that is Esme Cullen, I will absolutely discourage her from visiting. _

_I should tell you, however, that this might be the first time I genuinely want to introduce a woman to my parents. I'm sort of a sucker for having all of the people I love in the same room._

_Come home to me._

_Love,_

_Edward_

. . .

At his words, I picture Christmases with me and Edward and his big, crazy family and Charlie all clumped together, Sophie ripping wrapping paper off a mountain of toys beneath a tree the color of Edward's eyes.

For a brief moment my mind flashes back to standing in the Departures terminal of O'Hare, struck by a sudden desire to meet a relative stranger's family. I remember thinking that I never would, that these people I felt connected to just through Edward's stories seemed like the type of people I'd like. I recall feeling so, so sad at the realization that poor timing would derail such an appealing possibility.

Once upon a time, I would have been nervous at the idea of meeting a boyfriend's family, but somehow meeting Edward's parents feels like the last piece in a pretty amazing puzzle. I never had a big family, but suddenly it's the one thing I never knew I always wanted. And I suspect that like everything else I never knew I wanted, Edward would be more than happy to give it to me.

* * *

_Monday_

_My Bella,_

_Sometime in mid-February, I e-mailed Jasper asking for a favor. (Online shopping is virtually impossible from the Middle East, so I had to recruit him for help.) Miracle worker that he is, he came through, and as a result I have a pair of tickets to see Pearl Jam in San Francisco toward the end of June. I tried my best to see if I could find a reunion tour of the Spice Girls, but alas, they have all gone their own ways. Tragic, I'm sure you'll agree. That said, are you busy the night of June 20? It's my birthday, and I already know what I want._

_You. "Wishlist." Funnily enough, you're on top of mine. (You on top of me can be my second present.) _

_Come home to me._

_Love,_

_Edward_

. . .

I wonder idly as I bump around in the back of a rickety Jeep if Pearl Jam is appropriate wedding music. I don't think I'll ever admit to Edward that while I liked Pearl Jam before January 2012, my affinity for the band skyrocketed after the moment I listened to that song with him. I liked them in the way that most teenagers who grew up in the 90s in Washington State liked them: with a sense of ownership, a sense of camaraderie, a sense of connection. Actually liking their music was something else entirely; I have always loved Eddie Vedder's voice, even if some of their harder stuff didn't do much for me.

Now, though, the gravelly tones of Vedder's intonation make me think of green eyes and possibility and replica license plate key chains.

_I wish I was the souvenir you kept your house key on._

I don't care if it's appropriate or not; one day, I'm dancing to that song with an Army boy wearing a tuxedo the color of midnight.

* * *

_Tuesday_

_My Bella,_

_If you've followed the rules and are reading this on Tuesday, then…_

_Tomorrow. You'll be home tomorrow. _

_You're probably wondering why there isn't a letter for tomorrow when there was a letter for the day you left. Check your e-mail when you land; it's in your inbox._

_I love you. Come home to me._

_Love,_

_Edward_

. . .

I grin. An e-mail seems entirely appropriate. It's sort of hard to believe sometimes that all of this took off with a series of zeroes sent through the cybersphere to the other side of the world. Defying logic, defying reason, I fell in love with someone who was for all intents and purposes just passing by, but thanks to a few words and a tome of e-mails, "just passing by" blossomed into this.

_That was it. That moment._

I'll be grateful for that moment for the rest of my days.

* * *

_Wednesday_

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Bella Swan_

_Sent: Wednesday, April 18, 2012 7:13 a.m. PST_

_Subject: Photos and questions_

_My Bella,_

_Please download the attached photo before reading the rest of this message._

_Go ahead, I'll wait._

…

…

…

_Okay. So. A few things probably spring immediately to mind when you see this photo, the first being "what the hell is that fleabag mongrel sitting next to you?" That fleabag mongrel is Hank. Hank was a resident of the Seattle Animal Control shelter when I met him on Thursday, and he was scheduled to depart our world for a plane of higher awareness (or something) the next day. Given Hank's sparkling personality and puppy-dog eyes (which is an expression I completely understand now if I didn't before), Hank is our new roommate. He's also devoid of fleas and no longer smells like wet gym sneakers but rather like apples, which I think you'll agree is an odd scent for a dog shampoo but is certainly preferable to athletic wear._

_The second thing that's probably rolling through your mind now that I've stopped rambling about our dog (I hope you're okay with all of that, by the way – it was unexpected, but I suspect you'll agree that sometimes the unexpected things turn out to be the best ones) is how and when I met your father. Well, Jake and Hank and I took a short road trip to that tiny little town called Forks over the weekend to see your dad. I had an important question to ask him. _

_And when you get back, I have a pretty important one to ask you, too._

_See you soon. I love you._

_Edward_

. . .

_From: Bella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Sent: Wednesday, April 18, 2012 3:33 p.m. PST_

_Subject: Re: Photos and questions_

_Edward,_

_We just arrived in New York, so I'll be home in seven hours. I got your e-mail. _

_I love Hank._

_I love you._

_And my answer is yes._

_Love,_

_Bella_

* * *

_A/N: This is the last true chapter of this story. There will be an epilogue, which will be the final installment of "Departures." Thank you to everyone for the wonderful reviews and encouragement, and endless thanks for sharing this story around the cybersphere. You are all lovely. xo_

_Another note: The Hurt Heroes organization is a fictional one, but is loosely based on the Wounded Warrior Project, which I encourage you to check out if you are so inclined._


	10. Chapter 10: Epilogue: Clear Skies

**Departures**

**Summary: **"I was going to help you christen your bed, but it seems like someone else already beat me to the punch."

**Rating: **M

**Acknowledgement:** I wax poetic about the bottomless wineglass of awesome that is HollettLA at the end of this chapter. Nevertheless, mentioning it at the top also feels appropriate: you, m'lady, are a godsend. xo

_**A/N:**__ I referenced the Wounded Warrior Project in my note after the last chapter, and I'd like to also mention Luke's Wings, an organization which sends wounded veterans home for the holidays to be with their families and provides families with the means to visit wounded soldiers during their hospitalization and rehabilitation. (Thanks to Denny52 for telling me about this; what a lovely mission.) I'd also like to acknowledge Wreaths Across America, of which BLilTXgirl reminded me, which places wreaths on the graves of soldiers buried in national cemeteries. Another amazing organization._

* * *

**Chapter 10: Epilogue (Clear Skies)**

"_Okay, this isn't a ring," Edward says, and I nearly choke on my coffee as I lean against him on the sofa. "I'm getting you a ring," he continues, ignoring my esophageal almost-crisis entirely. "I have the stone, and I'm working on the rest, but this isn't…that." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that, despite his disclaimer, looks an awful lot like a ring box. When he cracks it open, however, what stares back up at me is a flat gold disc on a gold chain. I glance up at him and back down at the charm, touching it gently with one fingertip. Squinting, I can see that etched into the metal are five facets, all angled outward from the same center point._

"_It's beautiful," I tell him, tracing the tiny design with the pad of my finger. "A star?"_

_He licks his lips, and it strikes me suddenly that that he's nervous. "Stars have navigational properties," he says. "When I was headed home, I really only had the general United States as an address; I wasn't headed toward anything specific. Except you."_

_I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. "So I'm your North Star?" I tease, falling back into my default mode of taunting him, but he doesn't let me._

"_You're my everything. My home is just one thing on that list." As I lift the necklace from the box, he snaps it shut. "Wherever you are, that's where I'm headed. No matter what."_

_I shake my head, my eyes stinging. "Edward, I love it." I hold it up to undo the clasp, and as I do, the charm spins and I note that the reverse side isn't entirely smooth; upon closer inspection, I see tiny numbers etched into the metal._

_351/1584_

_I frown as I consider the digits briefly, but they make no sense to me; finally I give up, lifting my eyes to his expectantly._

"_I don't get it," I admit, and he smiles slightly._

"_Flight numbers." I glance down again as he continues. "Your Seattle flight. My New York flight. Those were the numbers." His hand cups my elbow. "That was where my orbit intersected with yours." He smiles softly. "That moment."_

* * *

"Do you want the window or the aisle?" he asks, one hand curling over the top of the airplane seat as he stands in the aisle, waiting for me to choose.

"Window," I reply, glancing up at him. "If you don't have a preference."

"Actually, I like the aisle. More leg room."

I grin as I slide in, lowering myself into my seat and pushing my backpack beneath the seat in front of me. I watch as Edward folds himself into the one by the aisle, stowing his own backpack beneath the middle seat and sighing as he leans against his upright seatback and stretches out his legs. I retrieve my phone from my pocket and refresh my e-mail, scanning through my new messages to see if there are any requiring a prompt reply. Seeing none, I fire off a text to Charlie to let him know we've boarded before turning the phone off entirely and stowing it in my bag. Edward does the same as the plane fills, passengers finding seats and hoisting carry-on luggage into the overhead compartments.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I'd like to welcome you aboard Southwest Airlines Flight 3570 with nonstop service to Chicago Midway," comes the pilot's voice when nearly all of the seats are full. "Our travel time today is approximately four hours and twenty-two minutes, which should get us into the Windy City on time."

I glance over at Edward; when he meets my eye and smiles, I recall my silent wish that my trip to Gaza would be the last time one of us flew without the other. I have already found traveling with Edward far preferable to leaving him behind. We settle into comfortable silence as the flight attendant demonstrates the proper use of a seat belt and reviews the safety brochure before the plane is screaming down the runway and catapulting off the ground. I close my eyes as we ascend, Edward's hand in mine on the empty seat between us, and I leave them closed until I feel sun rays on my face, telling me we've risen above the cloud cover that had been hovering over the city all morning. As the plane levels out, I gaze out at the clouds, white cotton puffs beneath a cornflower sky, wishing for a fleeting moment that I was interested in aerial photography.

"I'm sort of disappointed we're not flying into O'Hare," Edward murmurs against my ear, and I laugh as I continue to gaze out my window.

"Oh?"

"I've had numerous fantasies about adding it to my ever-growing list of…sites." I can hear the eyebrow-wag in his voice, and I laugh again.

"Something tells me we'll find ourselves at O'Hare at some point in the future," I reply, finally turning my head to gaze at him.

He smiles, and before he can say anything more, the woman who had been going over the safety regulations appears beside our row. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asks, hovering over Edward with her clipboard propped against her ribcage.

"I'll have an orange juice, please," he says, and when her eyes flick to me, her smile widens.

"And for you, hon?"

I'm ashamed to realize that I'm surprised by her friendliness; usually when we're faced with a female server, I fade into the background behind Edward's undeniable brilliance. "Uh, I'll have the same. Please."

"Sure thing," she says sweetly, leaning across Edward and toward me. "Would you like anything extra in it?"

I frown slightly. "I'm sorry?"

Her eyebrows arch slightly. "Screwdriver?"

My eyes widen. "Oh. Um. No, thank you. Just the juice."

As she nods and straightens, Edward's wide eyes find mine, and once she has moved past us, his face splits into a wide grin. His shoulders shake with silent laughter, and I frown.

"Okay, what the hell was that?" I hiss once I'm sure she can't hear me, and Edward's green eyes are watery.

"That was you getting hit on," he whispers and dissolves into giggles that aren't the least bit manly.

"Shut up."

"Trust me, Bella. I know what getting hit on by a stewardess looks like. That was pretty much it." He's still laughing, and I'm having a hard time deciding whether to be more indignant at his assessment of the situation or his casual disclosure that flight attendants apparently drape themselves all over him on a regular basis.

"They're called _flight attendants_," I emphasize, completely baffled as to why this is what I choose to focus on, and Edward raises the back of his left hand to graze my cheek with his knuckles.

"Careful. I find your blush adorable, so chances are she'd agree with me."

I knock his hand away with my shoulder. "Shut up," I say again, and he leans back into the seat.

"Want me to take you into the restroom? Let her know that you're not that type of girl?"

I shoot daggers at him. "Let her know I'm not a lesbian kind of girl, but that I am the kind of girl who's willing to be bent over the sink of an airplane bathroom?"

"Yup."

"Thanks. I'll let you know."

He grins. "You do that."

Despite my exasperation, a familiar excitement buzzes through me at the mental image of Edward bending me over anything, cramped airplane sink included. When I hear the low rumble of his chuckle, I glance over to see him eyeing me carefully, his eyes twinkling. "You like that idea," he says, and it's not a question.

"In theory," I reply. "In reality, airplane bathrooms are tiny and disgusting, and there's nothing sexy about being fucked in one."

His eyebrows shoot up at my blunt assessment, and I enjoy the fleeting surge of victory. "Noted."

"You're too big, anyway."

"Pardon?"

"There wouldn't be enough room for both of us to really get the right angle," I say, even as I have no idea why I'm still stuck on what I'm certain was a joke.

"Is that a challenge?" he asks, and I can see that while he intended it as a taunt, my apparent inability to let it go is piquing his interest.

"No," I say immediately. "I'm just…thinking aloud."

"So it's not just airports, then."

"What?"

"That get your engine revving." He grins. "So to speak."

"Shut up."

"No, I'm fascinated," he says, angling his body slightly to face me and leaning forward so that, despite the seat between us, we are face to face. "Is it just air-related travel, or travel in general? Do road trips do it for you? Because if that's the case, I'm more than okay with getting a refund on our return flights and driving back."

"Bite me."

"Gladly. On the hood of a rental car, perhaps? Do you prefer compacts or sedans?"

"Edward."

"Or SUVs? Something with a roomier backseat?"

He's getting progressively more pleased with himself, so I opt to shut him up in a way that's proved very effective in the past. When I hear the sound of a throat clearing in the space above us, I retract my tongue from his mouth and pull back, accepting the small plastic cup of orange juice that the flight attendant is holding toward me before lowering my tray table and sliding it closer to me.

Edward does the same, and I note with satisfaction that fully extended, it covers his lap. Lifting my cup to my lips with my left hand, I raise my armrest with my right and slide my hand into his lap to find him at half-mast behind the button fly of his jeans.

"Whoa," he says, returning his cup to his tray table without taking a sip, and I make a few passes over him with my palm, feeling him harden further before retracting my hand and smirking at him from behind the lip of my cup. "Well, that's uncool," he grumbles, two spots of color high on his cheeks. While I'd never admit it out loud, a tiny part of me wishes the airplane bathroom were, in fact, big enough for me to be comfortably bent over in.

"Payback," I say with a shrug.

"Payback for what?" he asks, equal parts indignant and aroused.

"Getting me wet when you can't make it worth my while."

Green eyes flash, lips get licked, and I smirk as I return my gaze to the clouds.

* * *

_Edward grumbles and I feel him draw his knees up beneath the comforter. I always feel badly that his feet dangle off the end of my double bed, even more so when Hank licks Edward's bare toes in order to wake him up in the morning. "Hank," he mumbles into the pillowcase, his arm pulling me back into his chest. "It's Saturday, buddy."_

_I hear the click of claws on hardwood and suddenly warm dog breath is puffing on my face. I burrow beneath the top sheet. "Your dog wants to go out," I tell Edward unnecessarily, nudging him with my backside. He doesn't answer, though I can feel proof of the fact that he's awake poking me in the rear. "I know you're up," I say, the innuendo my bait, and true to form, he's too much of a guy to let it go._

"_You would know," he murmurs, flexing his hips into mine, and I pull away._

"_Gotcha."_

"_So mean."_

"_Your dog wants to go out," I say again, and Edward's hand slides up my torso to cup my breast even as he does nothing more than hold it. Sometimes, he's admitted, he simply likes to touch parts of me no one else gets to._

"_He's _our_ dog," he replies._

"_Before seven a.m. on a Saturday, he's _your_ dog," I inform him. "Just ask Jasper how that works: the one who brings it home gets the early morning shift."_

"_So when we bring home a baby, you're on two a.m. duty?" he asks, rolling and pinning me to the bed. "Because if that's the case, I'll gladly walk the dog."_

"_Dirty pool," I say, my moxie turned to mush at his words and their implication._

_He chuckles as he ducks his head and presses a gentle kiss to the tender skin of my throat. "The dirtiest." He pulls the thin skin of my collarbone between his teeth before sliding his nose up the column of my neck to my ear. "Don't you dare move from this bed. I'm taking _our_ dog out, and then I'm coming back and I'm enjoying my Saturday morning."_

"_Okay," I breathe, licking my lips as he pulls back. "Hurry."_

* * *

Carlisle's face splits into a grin when he sees Edward and me walking toward him in the baggage claim area of the airport, and I'm surprised when he pulls me into a hug first, his arms tight around me. "Welcome to Chicago, Bella," he says, before pulling back and yanking his youngest son into a hug. "Welcome home," he says to Edward, who in turn claps his father between the shoulder blades.

"Thanks, Dad. Thanks for picking us up."

Carlisle grins. "Your mother is in hostess mode."

"Oh boy," Edward says, smiling down at me when I look to him for explication. "Mom gets a little…uh…Martha Stewart when she's expecting houseguests."

"If you don't have origami swan bath towels at the foot of your bed it'll be a miracle," Carlisle says, tipping his head in the direction of the line of baggage carousels. "Carousel 4," he says, and Edward and I fall into step beside him. We make small talk while we wait for our suitcase to appear, and as I watch Edward and Carlisle's easy conversation – and even participate in it – it strikes me anew how fond I am of his family. The first time I met Carlisle and Esme, I'd been a mess of nerves. As Edward predicted, his mother announced that she wanted to visit Alice, Jasper, and Sophie for Memorial Day weekend, and subsequently I was staring down the barrel of the "meet-the-parents" gun. Despite my nerves, I suspected that Edward's parents would be nothing less than lovely, and I was more than right; a mere hour after being introduced, I felt like I'd known them for years.

Once our shared suitcase appears on the silver roundabout, we make our way to the parking garage. Edward lets me ride shotgun in his father's Mercedes SUV, and I watch the Chicago scenery slide by as Carlisle navigates the car toward the suburbs. When we pull into the driveway of the modest-yet-sprawling house in which Edward grew up, I force myself not to stare at it like a full-grown Little Orphan Annie arriving at Daddy Warbucks' swanky mansion.

"Home sweet home," Edward murmurs as he drags our suitcase from the back of the car, and when I glance at his face, he looks almost embarrassed.

"It's beautiful," I tell him, and he visibly relaxes somewhat.

Carlisle appears from around the car. "It's a little big for just two of us, but Esme's put a lot of time and effort into it over the years."

"It really is beautiful," I say again, and Edward slams the tailgate.

"Okay. Into the fire," he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me and the suitcase along behind him.

Like Carlisle, Esme hugs me even before she hugs Edward, though the way she wraps her arms around him and squeezes and holds on a beat longer after he tries to gently extricate himself makes my chest feel warm. She beams up at him before patting his forearm and smiling at me. "Jasper and Alice are on the back deck with Sophie, and Emmett and Rosalie should be here in about ten minutes. I've got stuffed shells and lasagna and garlic bread in the oven, and I thought we'd eat as soon as everyone's here. You two must be hungry." She doesn't give us a chance to respond, directing Carlisle to take our suitcase and backpacks upstairs before ushering us through the house and toward the back door. "What can I get you two to drink? I have beer and wine and soda and…well, pretty much everything. Bella?"

"Let me help you," I say, grateful for the opportunity to say anything at all. "Beer?" I ask Edward, and he nods.

"Whatever they've got."

"Stella, Yuengling, Heineken Light, LandShark, Peroni," Esme calls over her shoulder, and I bite back a smile at Edward's eyebrow-hitch.

"Wow. Uh, Stella. Thanks."

I nod and follow Esme into the kitchen. "Beer is in the fridge, Bella," she says, reaching up to retrieve glasses from a cabinet. "What would you like, hon?"

"I'll just have a beer, too. Thanks," I reply, digging a Stella and a LandShark out of the Cullens' cavernous refrigerator. "Would you like one?"

"I have a glass of wine around here somewhere, but thank you."

I nod, and just as I go to close the door, she speaks again. "Oh! I bought limes for the LandSharks. Jasper informed me that they're no good without the lime. It's in the produce drawer."

"It's okay," I say quickly. "I don't need lime."

"I'm sure Jasper's going to want one when he sees Edward's having a beer," she replies, and I nod, grabbing a third beer from the fridge before carrying them all over to the counter. "The boys won't want glasses, but I assumed you would," she explains, placing a pint glass with a stem beside my elbow.

I smile. "Thank you." I place the three bottles and the lime on the counter. "Knife and chopping board?" I ask, but Esme doesn't hear me as she reaches out gently and takes my left hand in hers.

"Oh, Bella. Your ring. It's so beautiful." She glances from the band to my face and back again, a beatific smile on her lips.

I smile down at the stone for a moment before glancing at the top of her head where she's still bent over my hand. "Esme, I want to thank you," I murmur, and those eyes that are so like Edward's find mine, her face open.

"For what, dear?"

"Well…for teaching Edward the importance of moments."

Her smile dims only slightly as confusion touches her porcelain features. "Moments," she repeats carefully.

I nod, flicking my eyes to the window, through which I can see her youngest son nursing a bottle of Stella, leaning one hip against the deck railing as he chats with Jasper. "When we met at O'Hare in January, I really, really liked him almost immediately. But you know…we were flying in opposite directions. He gave me his address, but really, I sort of thought that might be it. Maybe I'd send him a letter or something, and maybe I'd even get one back, but never in a million years could I have imagined this." She's still smiling patiently, so I continue. "When I landed in Seattle, I had an e-mail waiting for me. From Edward. He said that you had always been telling him how important it was to seize moments." I shrug. "He said that was him, taking your advice. So…thank you."

"Oh, Bella. Would it be terribly clichéd of me to tell you that you've made Edward happier than I've ever seen him, and to thank _you_?"

I laugh, despite the warm glow settling low in my abdomen. "Probably."

She echoes my laugh and follows my gaze to Edward. "Probably," she agrees.

"I realize it's likely written all over my face, but I just want to tell you. I really, really, _really_ love your son."

She doesn't look at me, but her hand finds mine in the space between us and her slender fingers grab mine in an iron grip. "He really, really, _really_ loves you, too."

I smile. "Yeah. So he's said."

* * *

_I frown without opening my eyes as the low hum of music splits the early morning quiet, an irritatingly peppy song for a Saturday. Wait. Saturday. I didn't even _set _an alarm for Saturday. What the hell? I crack one eye open to peek at the clock and sigh. 8:30 a.m. Not indecently early, but still a reasonable hour to be lazing in bed with Edward._

_Edward._

_I shift slightly, surprised not to feel his body against mine or his arm wrapped around me. A small scoot backward brings only more confusion when I don't meet any part of him, and I roll to my back to find I'm in bed alone. The music continues, and in my now-awake state I realize it's not coming from my alarm clock, but from the iPod dock on the other side of the room. I lift my head and glance around the room, but Edward is nowhere to be found as the opening bars of "Under Pressure" greet me. I groan. Now I'll have this freaking song in my head all day long. A closer inspection of the room shows a Starbucks cup on his bedside table, and I frown again. He better have one for me._

"_That's for you," I hear immediately, and I whip my head toward the doorway where Edward stands holding a paper sack with another favorite logo on it._

"_Tell me that's a sweet roll."_

_He grins. "It's a sweet roll."_

"_You're forgiven, then."_

_His eyebrows hitch. "Forgiven?"_

"_For leaving this bed without my express permission."_

_He nods, faking chagrin. "Apologies."_

"_Get over here." He obeys, kicking off his shoes and shucking his jeans to slip between the sheets in boxers and a t-shirt. "What's with the breakfast treats?" I ask, peeking into the sack he hands me._

"_I don't know how to make pancakes," he says as if he's confessing, and I frown as I tear a bite off my treat and pop it in my mouth. _

"_Pancakes?"_

_He smiles softly, flicking his eyes toward the iPod dock and the Starbucks cup. "I'm recreating." _

_It takes me a minute before I get at least a hint of what he's talking about. "Recreating," I repeat carefully, licking residual sugar from my lips. His teeth find his lip momentarily, and he rolls away from me, bending over to retrieve something from the floor beside his side of the bed. When he returns, he's holding a small bag. "Recreating," he says again, holding it out to me. _

_After only a brief hesitation, I set down the bag with my breakfast in it and accept the new bag, glancing at his face before peeking inside and rummaging around._

_A book on tantric sex._

_Massage oil._

_The envelope with the tickets to see Pearl Jam._

_A cube of Post-it flags._

_A pair of Washington State license plate key chains._

_I laugh as I catalog the contents, but when I see the small basket of strawberries, I frown, lifting it in silent question. _

"_You already have a blender," he explains. "Those are to make smoothies."_

_I beam. "Well, look at you, being all romantic. What's the occasion?"_

_In lieu of an answer, his eyes shift to look past me, above the headboard of the bed. When I follow his gaze, I see a paper world map tacked to the wall, a smattering of red Post-it flags dotting cities in other countries and a crisscross of red yarn spider-webbing the continental United States. I smile as I gaze up at his artwork. "How did you manage that while I was sleeping?" I wonder aloud, and I feel him shift on the mattress beside me._

"_I exhausted you thoroughly last night in anticipation of my nocturnal decorating," he says, and I can hear the smile without looking._

"_Sneaky," I say, even though I know it's only partly true. I sleep like the dead regardless. I gaze at the map, flags on all of the places we marked back in January, and my eyes flick to the red string that spans the country from east to west and back again, with pins in all sorts of cities. While following the path of the yarn isn't effortless, I note that the last pin is in Seattle, tacked to the bottom of a larger square Post-it than the rest, and he's left a length of string dangling free, long enough that it hangs nearly to his pillow. I pick up the end of it and turn to face him. "Ultimate destination to be determined?" I ask, and he licks his lips and shakes his head slightly. "Not exactly. I mean, you have a job in Seattle, I can finish school and work in Seattle…I like it here," he says, plucking the end of the yarn from my fingers._

"_Okay," I say, willing him to continue._

"_Bella, I'm nuts about you. I have been since day one. You know that."_

"_I do," I say, even though I could add that I'll never tire of hearing him say it. I watch as he ties a small loop in the end of the red yarn._

"_You know that I want a life with you. Marriage and babies and, so help me, even the Spice Girls."_

"_I do," I say again, suddenly suspecting where this is going and feeling a small lump rise behind my words._

"_You know that I want you to be my home, and that I want to be yours," he says, his eyes boring into mine as he reaches for my left hand and slides the loop he's tied around my ring finger._

"_I do," I whisper, as he tugs gently to tighten the small knot._

"_You know that I love you."_

"_I do."_

_He smiles softly, rising to his knees and plucking the larger Post-it from the map; as he does so, a band of shimmering white gold slides along the blood-red cord and slips over my fingertip, snagging against my knuckle. "Marry me," he breathes._

"_Yes."_

_He grins as he slides the ring the rest of the way home, his eyes never leaving mine, the sparkle in them even brighter than the solitaire on my finger._

* * *

"So this is the infamous telescope," I say, gazing at the long instrument propped on a tripod near the large window overlooking the backyard. I toss a saucy look over my shoulder to where Edward lays semi-reclined on his bed. "It's big." He smirks, folding his hands behind his head. "I know you said it wasn't a euphemism, but it could be," I add, walking toward him and propping one knee on the edge of the mattress, wagging a suggestive eyebrow.

"Whatever you want to call it, Bella," he says, the lightness of his voice contradicted by the dark in his eyes.

I cast another glance around his room, taking in the small details. Some of them are so very Edward – the neat lines of books on his shelves, the muted, earth-tone color palette, the dresser devoid of clutter – and yet others seem outdated, like clothes that no longer quite fit: the Cubs pennant over the small wooden desk, the star map taped to the back of his door, the small bulletin board dotted with old photos of a gangly Edward and a cast of characters I don't recognize. Other things, like the telescope, seem like clues to the parts of him I'm still getting to know. Edward watches me cataloging his room, indulgent as I blatantly scrutinize his space.

"So," I say, leaning more of my weight onto the knee propped on his green plaid comforter.

"So," he replies casually, a picture of relaxation with his legs crossed at the ankles, socked feet mere inches from the foot of his queen-sized bed.

"Have you ever had a girl in your room, Edward?"

His lips twist, and I feel my eyebrows climb slightly. "I have," he says, amusement in his voice and his eyes.

"Oh, really?" The spike of jealousy I feel is irrational, but there. "Was it Kate?"

"It was not. The ass-splinter and impromptu stream-dive sort of derailed that before she had the chance to visit Chicago."

"Hm. Pity. Which one, then?"

The smirk widens. "One?"

"There was _more_ than one?!"

He squints up at me. "Okay, I'm not entirely sure where this is going. Are you legitimately ruffled, or is this still foreplay?"

"I'm not sure," I say, frowning. "It probably depends on your answer."

"Well. No pressure there." I say nothing, folding my arms over my chest. He unfolds his hands from behind his head and props himself up on his elbows as he gazes up at me. I poke his socked big toe with my forefinger. "I lost my virginity in here," he admits, and I can see that the confession actually makes him uneasy. "Remember the high-school girlfriend I told you about?" I nod and he nods in return. "Yeah. The summer before senior year. My parents were out of town."

"Hm." I am jealous, even though I know it's stupid. He's mine now – he's promised to be mine forever – but the simple fact that once upon a time he was someone else's makes me edgy. "And?"

He shrugs. "The girl I dated my senior year of college. She came home with me for spring break."

"And you had sex with her in here?"

"Well, sort of." He frowns. "Not exactly."

I feel my eyes narrow without my permission. "What do you mean, 'Not exactly'?"

"We, uh, did other stuff."

"What other stuff?"

He shifts his weight uncomfortably, despite the fact that I can tell with just one knee on it that his bed is pretty damn comfortable. "She, uh…well, you know." I wait. "She…gave me…you know." He gestures toward his lap, and my momentary pang of jealousy is quickly giving way to amusement at his discomfort. "Head."

"Head?" I repeat. He blushes, and it makes me want to do a lot more than just give him head, but I'm enjoying watching him squirm. "Well, that's too bad."

At this, he frowns. "What? Why?"

I shrug, removing my knee from his bed as his frown deepens. "I was going to help you christen your bed, but it seems like someone else already beat me to the punch." At my retreat, he sits up as if an invisible wire connects us: as I step back, he propels forward.

"We can re-christen it," he says, holding a hand out toward me, but I sigh in mock disappointment and retreat farther, walking backward until the backs of my thighs find the edge of his desk.

"I don't know," I say thoughtfully. "I don't think you can christen something twice." When I glance at his face, I can nearly see the wheels turning as he tries to decide if I'm at all serious. "You know what I like about your desk, though?" I continue, glancing down and running one finger along the lip of the walnut-colored wood.

"What?" he asks, and I meet his eye.

"It's much wider than the sink in an airplane bathroom."

It takes less than a second for him to grasp my implication; almost immediately, he's grasping my hips and turning me gently, his lips at my ear.

"I love the way your mind works."

"I love the way all of you works," I reply, glancing at him over my shoulder. "Now get working."

* * *

_A choked "Oh, God," are the first words Edward utters on his thirty-third birthday, and they come as he awakens to the feel of my mouth wrapped around his morning arousal. "Bella," he gasps shortly thereafter, pushing strands of my hair off my face to watch my lips slide up and down his length, his eyes sleepy and aroused, possessive and tender._

_My hands knead his thighs as my mouth works, taking him into my throat before retreating, sliding my tongue along the textured length of him until just his tip sits between my lips. The fingers of the hand not holding my hair back twist in the sheet of the hotel bed, chest heaving with pants, and I can tell that catching him with his guard down has pushed him near his peak quicker than he's used to. His hips are hitching slightly, and I smile around him, sliding him in and out once more before rolling gently to one side and pulling his right hip to bring him onto his side facing me. I take him back into my mouth, curling a hand around his hip to pull him forward, and a low hiss comes from the space above me. He thrusts shallowly a few times, his right hand curling around my left shoulder, and I hum in approval to spur him on._

"_Oh, God," he moans again, his thrusts deepening as he grows even harder in my mouth. "Bella." I hum again, and the hand that was on my shoulder slides to the back of my neck, pulling my head forward as he pushes deep; he holds me still as he lets go, pulsing and spilling into my throat on a long groan. I swallow, continuing to suck even as my head remains immobile, and his groan melts into a gasp as my mouth works his slowly softening flesh. After a few beats, he releases my neck, and I look up to see him looking meekly back down at me; I can't determine whether the stain of his cheeks is from arousal or sheepishness. "Sorry," he mumbles, and I free him from my mouth as I smirk up at him._

"_What for?"_

_He runs a gentle hand over my hair and then brushes a thumb against my cheekbone. "I, uh, got a little carried away, I think."_

"_I liked it," I tell him simply and pull back from him to push the top sheet down, revealing that prior to waking him up, I shucked my pajama pants and tank top, leaving me in only the indigo briefs that I'd worn the first time he saw me in my underwear. Despite his boneless bliss, his eyes flash as they run down the length of me, and I slide one hand beneath the elastic of my panties. "And now for your second present." Heated eyes watch the blue fabric as it shifts and moves with the movement of my hand against my own flesh, and he licks his lips._

"_This is for me?" he asks, and while the words are teasing, the tone doesn't match._

"_Well," I say, offering a slight shrug, and his eyes leave my crotch briefly to watch my breasts bounce with the movement. "I'll probably get something out of it, too." I bite my lip as I slide the pads of my fingers over slick skin, and green eyes are once again on my hidden hand._

"_I want to watch."_

"_You are."_

_He shakes his head, but his eyes stay on my hand. "I want to _see_," he emphasizes, and I bite my lip as my fingers pass over my swollen clit. _

"_You want to see?" I repeat, buying myself time, and his eyes narrow. _

"_Take them off."_

_Later that night, I am lying on a quilted blanket beside Edward gazing at the emerging stars, listening to the refrains of Pearl Jam floating on the San Francisco twilight._

"_I wonder if I'll ever stop feeling wondrous at the fact that we're here," I say to the heavens, feeling Edward's fingers tangle with mine in the space between us. My bare toes graze the edge of the blanket and blades of grass still warm from a long day baking beneath a summer sun._

"_I hope not," he replies, voice soft._

"_Me too."_

* * *

"Sophie, be careful, darlin'. Those sparklers will burn you if you touch the lighted part." Jasper's blue eyes track his daughter's movements around the deck as Alice flits through the screen door and swoops in, lifting the sparkler in question from Sophie's tiny fingers.

"Yeah, how about we wait until it's time for fireworks to wave these around, okay, Soph?"

Sophie's tiny hands ball into fists and find their way to her hips, but before she can launch into a full-scale tantrum, Edward swoops in and scoops her into his arms, tossing her over his shoulder.

I snap a picture as Sophie squeals and giggles. "Uncle Edward, put me down!" she yelps, wriggling in his arms. A part of me is sad that she's upgraded from "Unca," and I hope the bump rounding Alice's body in tiny degrees will pick up the nickname in few years' time.

Edward acquiesces, sliding his niece to the wooden planked floor of the deck just as Esme appears with an armful of blankets.

"We ready?" she asks, bright smile shining around the porch at everyone, and we all nod and voice our agreement as we set out in a group for the waterfront park near their house. Once there, we pick our way around the other blankets and lawn chairs dotting the grass, finding a nice spot beneath a large tree to deposit our blankets and the small wheeled cooler Emmett has been dragging behind him. We settle and Jasper relights a sparkler for Sophie, and I snap pictures of everything as the semi-dark turns inky and the first eruptions of color illuminate the night.

I mess with the settings on my camera, adjusting the aperture and the ISO and slowing the shutter speed to compensate for the darkness, and take a few shots of Alice and Jasper and one of Emmett and Rosalie. The smell of gunpowder is heavy in the air, and I cast a sidelong glance at Edward, who sits propped against the trunk of an oak tree with Sophie in his lap, gazing at the explosions of color against the dark night sky. I study him, looking for any telltale signs of anxiety, hints that his mind isn't on fireworks but roadside explosions, but there are none. His face is peaceful, his eyes bright, his posture relaxed. As always, he is beautiful.

As if he's felt my gaze on him, his eyes slide over to mine and a small smile pulls his lips upward. He had shifted a few feet away from me when Sophie began waving her sparkler around, nearly igniting my hair, and even after three months of his constant presence, those few feet are too many. I inch slightly closer and his small smile grows, one hand creeping across the distance between us; I meet him halfway, interlacing my fingers with his. More explosions of light reflect in his eyes as he gazes at me, and I squeeze his fingers as I stare back at him. His thumb traces along my palm and comes to rest on the band of my third finger, flicking it gently so that the stone on the other side dances, throwing off its own sparkles. He gives me his soft smile, the one he saves for me, and I return it before he shifts his focus back to the sky. I slide my fingers out of his and settle his hand on my thigh as I return my hand to my camera.

While Edward watches the sky, I watch him, each flash of brilliance reflected in his eyes and illuminating his lovely face. Too many times, I've read or heard people say that they see fireworks when they kiss. When they make love. That bright bursts of color explode behind their closed eyelids, as if that lip-lock is like the Fourth of July. I think it says something for the way I love Edward that the best parts of that love happen with my eyes wide open. That gazing at him is more breathtaking, more brilliant than any display of pyrotechnics.

_Oh, what a story we'll have._

As it turns out, in my very first e-mail to him, I spoke the truest words of all: _some of my favorite moments so far have been with you._

I lift my camera and click.

* * *

_A/N: You guys. YOU. GUYS. I don't even know what to say. The amount of love this story has received from way back when it was just a one-shot to now has been humbling, astounding, and heartwarming. Thank you so, so much. SO much._

_I'm toying with some new story ideas. I do have a few chapters of something new in the works – it's not "Departures," but there will be adorkably awkward Edward and sometimes he'll be naked, so there is that. __Until then, there are some one-shots on my author profile, plus the three-part "The Purple Banana Hammock," which still has a special place in my heart. If you like big-donged Edward and smart-mouthed Bella and you haven't read it yet, it might be something you'd enjoy. (Don't be deterred by the presence of a Speedo.)_

_Also, I know it's been said, but it bears repeating: endless thanks go to HollettLA, my remarkable, wonderful, amazing beta. Her guidance and friendship have done much to make "Departures" into the story you've just finished, and without her guidance there'd be commas just willy-nilly all over, and cockblock would have been hyphenated. THANK YOU, lady; you are truly wonderful, not to mention hilarious. _

_Thanks also to Nicffwhisperer for persuading me that "Departures" was worth more than just one chapter and for tirelessly pimping it all over these here Interwebz, and to the "stalker army" that took up the cause; I hope this story did your enthusiasm justice._

_Come find me on Twitter: I'm TheFicChick over there, too._

_Until next time. Stay awesome. xo_


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